Dusting
by Punzie the Platypus
Summary: America and Maxon dive into the diaries of Gregory Illéa and find another holiday in them worth bringing back to celebrate: Valentine's Day. So much fluff, A/M
1. Banter

**_Soli Deo gloria_**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own The Selection. So I had actually started writing this fic before Valentine's Day with the thought of 'Hmmmm, I'll finish this by Valentine's Day and it'll be like three thousand words long and cute and adorable.' I HAVE A DOC OVER 12,000 WORDS LONG ON THIS AND IT ISN'T EVEN FINISHED. XP**

 **First chapter. *gulpy***

 **IN THE MEANTIME CUTIENESS.**

The months following the marriage of Prince Maxon and the Chosen among the Selected, the hot-tempered and brazen Lady American Singer, massive construction from the ground-up happened all around the nation. Besides teams of guards being sent to set up perimeters around the most trashed of the South, the wedding had given hope to the nation. Like King Clarkson marrying below himself a Four, Prince Maxon, now the reigning monarch of all of Illéa, climbed steadily up the public opinion ladder as he not only instituted laws of Illéa, but showed the public his own personal attentions to equality in their nation: He married, so willingly, a vibrant refreshing Five, and as a result the nation was recovering slowly but surely from the rebel attack on the royal palace. After all, the provinces' vote of confidence in the monarchy actually took a downturn following the devastating news of the murders of King Clarkson and sweet-tempered Queen Amberly; if the rebels, a constant thorn in the nation's side and a constant worry that sent many parents of all castes looking worriedly over their shoulders in paranoia that rebels were bounding around the corner to come slay their sons and daughters, could easily gain access into the royal palace, the one building in the entire nation with the utmost security protecting the nation's greatest treasures, how safe could they, common citizens, be?

Constant outpourings of mail flooded the palace everyday, taking over the entire postal office and forcing the operation to be extended into the next room over. Maxon's days after the rebel attack, besides recovering, were full of his dictations to his secretary of letters in reply. In between lessons in being a queen and plans for the greatest royal wedding Illéa had yet been subjected to, America joined him in writing letters of reassurance to the worried demanding citizens. Especial attention and tender care was paid to those written by lower castes. America, despite the reports of threats to the families of the higher Elite during the Selection, felt an almost indifferent spite to the castes of Three and up, considering how they were able to easily buy the protection of several ex-soldiers and such. _They_ could buy their security, while everyone Four and under was vulnerable because of their slight bank accounts.

Between the letter writing and the rebuilding of broken-down, rebel-decimated districts in the lower provinces, the King and Lady were wedded, and the next year, that ethereal year following the union that is supposed to be light and loving, innocent and infinite, for the two newlyweds, became draining, time-managed and micro-planned days, which became weeks, which became months.

One late January night, enjoying the fresh breeze of a balmy Angeles winter night out on the King's Room's balcony, America's moment of refreshment was interrupted (gladly) by an anxious and sighing young king.

"America, it's winter," Maxon said worriedly as he joined her side. He appraised her silky nightdress and thick bathrobe and decided the combination was a sure-fire formula for pneumonia. "The last thing we need is for the young queen of Illéa to be fallen upon with a deadly disease."

"Maxon," America said, extending a hand to test the slight breeze blowing gently, almost tenderly, across the young couple. "It's sixty-five degrees out. It's pretty much fall in Carolina."

Maxon clasped this extended hand in his, sandwiching it between his two warm care-worn hands. Instantly they became warmer and hotter between his gesture of affection. "The last thing I need is for you to become ill, my dear," he said. He hastened to recover from this familiar blunder as he recognized his mistake via the obvious rolling of America's eyes. "My America," he said gently, craning his neck to look into her eyes, for they were cast from her steady gaze to the gardens below them, to the city-scape of Angeles displayed against the horizon that late night. The clock struck eleven and the young king sought her gaze.

America's eyes saw him and her hands immediately employed themselves in keeping busy. "It'd be horrible if I got sick. All the visits from relations and allies from foreign countries would have to be canceled or delayed; letters wouldn't be written, as my poor throat would be so hoarse from disease I could barely breathe, never mind assist in running an entire country. It'd be horrible; all I could do is lay in my huge comfy bed surrounded by warm quilts and adoring, attentive loyal servants, and be served hot tea and warm pastries and get warm baths and long, luxurious naps," she said, and groaned longingly. How nice it would be for a day to be ill, if just to relax and take it easy and have a clear mind.

"Oh, don't tempt me," Maxon said, sighing. He closed his eyes and inhaled.

"A day to do nothing but enjoy doing nothing," America purred imploringly. Her fingers pulled the sleeves of His Majesty's long-sleeve white polo into doubled-over folds at his elbows; they'd been unbuttoned and flapping before her masterful tidying righted them. She fixed the King's deliciously crooked collar but left the first two buttons to his polo open, allowing her to see his chest deepening as he exhaled and strengthening with ease as he breathed in. Her fingers traced along the top of the almost-see-through clothing the puncture wound of the penetrating bullet Maxon had taken for her. It was an admirable scar she couldn't get off her mind sometimes. He wore that as a badge of honor for only her to see, for he attained it only for her sake.

"My lovely little wife is a charming temptress," Maxon said, amused but half caught in her spell anyway.

America sighed and threw the idea away. Too idealistic for it to do more than entertain and hold the fancies of the exhausted king and queen.

"Speaking of it being winter, you're severely undressed, Your Highness," America informed him seriously. She buttoned his top close, and his nimble fingers caught hers. She raised her eyebrows and said sternly, "Your life is in danger, Your Majesty. It is my royal duty to protect the monarchy."

"Why do you like to use my arguments against me?" Maxon wondered mournfully.

"Because you allow me to, you hypocrite," America smirked. She pulled back down his shirt sleeves and straightening her back, said, "No pneumonia for you, Maxon."

"Oh, but if I get sick I can lay around all day in bed—" Maxon started dramatically.

America glared at him.

Maxon exploded into a wide-open white smile, almost giggling. Yes; the king of Illéa, _giggling_. The _absolute_ horror. If their enemies saw this, they'd run in pure terror.

"Your Highness," she intoned in a warning voice.

Maxon immediately sucked back in any hysterical laughing that would set his queen into a dramatic temper rage, causing her to flounce her way away from the balcony and enjoy the company of her ladies' maid rather than that of her husband. He clasped her hands in his and said, craning his head and looking into her sharp grey eyes with his warm, imploring brown ones, "How am I to tell you our task for tomorrow if this is the reception I shall receive?"

"I can take it," America said firmly, even as she inwardly dreaded the inescapable duties of a reigning monarch. What would they do? Settle a dispute between land ownership between rebels down South and the provinces? Reorganize an effort to bring up the status of an Eight, completely wiping it out and merging all those low-life, scum-of-the-earth, the dirt-on-the-bottom-of-Illéa's shoe with the next lowest caste on the totem pole, the hardworking, poverty-stricken Sevens?

Being a revolutionary breath of fresh air to the constrained, stilted Illéan monarchy was, needless to say, draining.

Maxon could tell she was ready for matters of state, so he found himself smiling a little as he said, "We're going to engage in a little spring cleaning."

America's eyebrows wrinkled and her entire demeanor spoke of curiosity and confusion rather than resignation to a higher purpose. Didn't they have mountains of palace-born-and-bred maids, butlers, porters, assistants, and cooks to take care of the cleaning of the palace? Scullery maids scrubbed toilets, maids swept and wiped down the greasy banisters slick from dozens of people sliding their hand down the supports as they descended down the tall, exercise-inducing staircases, and ladies' maids waited upon the distinguished ladies of the palace they'd been assigned to, keeping them fresh and clean via the wonderful installation of the state-of-the-art bathrooms and vanities. What on earth was in the palace that needed hands-on cleaning by the highest people in the land, the Ones—the king and queen?

"Are we cleaning our way through your office? You _and_ your secretary are horrible at filing," America ventured.

Maxon shook his head.

"Do you have some clothes in your drawers you've realized are out of fashion this season, and want my eye to help you pick-and-choose your new sleeker, less-is-more closet?" America wondered.

Maxon withheld his laughter excellently; only his beautiful eyes shone with amusement and mirth.

America felt the answer was on the tip of her tongue; Maxon's reaction to her questions told her that much. She asked several more times several plausible things all to do with the monarchy, from letters to foreign relations to addressing slacking employees of the palace. Each time he shook his head, not daring to open his mouth lest he reveal the truth before his thoroughly exasperated wife.

He was able to keep his lips sealed to get his desired effect; America blustered and blushed and was thoroughly annoyed with her childish husband. "I give up," she finally smacked against him. Her usually pale cheeks were aflame with splotches of harsh red coloring, like a drop of scarlet paint dropped on a white piece of paper and allowed to spread every which way. She dropped her hands and threw them up in a surrendering gesture; her eyes never left his; his never lost their charm and brightness, to her furious discovery. "What are we, the Ones of the land, doing tomorrow, Maxon?" she demanded.

Maxon's fingers played along the railing encircling the balcony and he turned his head to view the gardens. Obviously he took his time, and enraged America more by the next move he made: he whistled.

 _Of all the infuriating, enraging, stupid, stalling, casual, aggravating, insulting, instigating, manly things he could've done—!_

"You're teasing me," America huffed.

Maxon smiled sweetly at her. "You're so adorable when you're angry."

"Well, I'm about to be the cutest girl in the entire kingdom at this rate if you don't tell me!"

Maxon's air grew solemn, then, and America knew she was finally going to get an answer out of him. He looked off to the landscape on the horizon, of beautiful Angeles disappearing into a spray of lights, looking like a pale dark pasture with only sweet wild peonies sticking out on it. "You and I, and only you and I, are going to search through Gregory Illéa's diaries tomorrow. Gather them all together and collect important information. Anything to help us find a way of bringing down the caste system. He made the system; we'll just reverse what he did."

America's mouth dropped open; finally, after months of marriage and only a sneak peek into that library during her Selection, the two of them, hand-in-hand, would dive deep into the depths of that wicked manipulative man's soul, to find some strange logical reasoning behind the creation of Illéa's caste system, and use it against him to tear the entire structure down.

So the only question left on her lips after the rest had fled from sheer shock was "Why?"

Maxon's face became enrobed in a mask of confusion. Eyebrows raised curiously, he asked, "Why? Is that what you're asking me, America?"

"Yes," America said. She gulped and continued in a calmer, less stark-struck voice. "We've been incredibly caught up in dealing with the country's immediate issues now. Why this sudden dive into its rich, painful, unknown history?"

"Because I thought of the idea a few nights ago, when I was thinking of the process of disassembling the caste system, and how hard it will be to take down something so instilled in our society. I thought then 'There must be a time before the caste system was made. After all, something like this needs time for its roots to set.' Then I thought of the library and the innermost thoughts of Gregory Illéa. Surely if we investigate, we can find the ways he implemented the castes and reverse their effects. I thought, in order to take down something that's been around our entire lives, we must go to its beginning, where it was at its weakest, and bring it down to that again."

He smiled a weak, almost bitter smile. "Why not now? Letter-writing can wait. We've probably clogged up the postal offices and sprained our wrists, we've written so many."

America gave him a wry little smile. Neither spoke of what they both were thinking, so impulsive, now-honest America blurted out, "We might not like what we find."

"Oh, I don't count this as a pleasure day, America, darling," Maxon said quietly.

Neither knew what horrors they might find in there. America knew that the country for which she'd been named, the predecessor of this land now called Illéa, had its own ruling documents. One of its documents called for the equality of all, meaning that one man could not be subjected under the rulership of another man, like a slave to a master. That specifically wasn't written out in determined, clear, honest terms, but it was exactly the opposite of what Gregory Illéa had made his kingdom do. Now there was a caste system, a system that didn't allow for the equal right for all, and America thought of the quote, 'Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness' endowed to them by their Creator.

Gregory Illéa didn't believe that, and he formed an entire kingdom representing his mindset.

Maxon was right. In order for the new generation of rulers in Illéa to fix the mistakes of the past, they needed to get down to the root of the problem and eradicate it from the soul of the country.

America nodded, her eyes and focused face relaying to her husband how she knew the seriousness of the situation.

Both king and queen walked quietly, heads bowed in serious thought, back into the Queen's room. America, as usual, couldn't help the tears that _would_ come at such a time. She sat on the edge of the bed after not meeting Maxon's imploring eyes, and stared at her hands clasped in her lap. He knelt in front of her and enclosed her hands securely in his, and if his eyes didn't speak of devotion, he was an unreadable statue. He looked silently into her face and if he hadn't any tact developed by the long testing duration of the Selection, he would've indelicately dove into curious inquiries as to the cause of her crying state. But the newlyweds could read each other's thoughts as easily as words upon a page, and he knew why she cried. They were finally unraveling the bandage around the country's gaping wound and addressing a problem that'd been a problem throughout her life. The castes were well known to America, and now diving a step forward into removing them moved her to tears.

 **Thanks for reading!**


	2. Dusting

_**Soli Deo gloria**_

 **DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own The Selection. Second chapter!**

The next morning dawned a white sky and a cool breeze. The palace awoke in the wee hours of the morning and the monarchs yawned themselves into consciousness past seven. The air of the maids in their freshly pressed uniforms serving the abundant breakfast to Maxon and America, while professional and lovely, seemed so strange to America. How were the two of them served as if nothing of great consequence to these maids was going to take place that morning? Her eyes attached to the maids, who, unused to such undue attention, smiled prettily, if somewhat nervously, and then left the room.

Magda, May, and Gerard were settled in the lovely little house Maxon had specially spent so much time and effort into setting up for them. James and Kenna and their little Astra also enjoyed living in a tiny abode right next door on that same piece of beautiful suburban pastureland, far from the reaches of the paparazzi. Two miles away they were from them in the lovely balmy city of Angeles, and America ached for them as if they were far away in Carolina. She longed for her mother's sharp but listening voice, and her sisters' honesty, and Gerard's youth to bring hope to her. She wished for them all (except that rat of a brother, Kota), to let them know of this important moment they were taking in steps to healing the country. But more than not she missed them for themselves. The dining room of the palace was built in mind for the Selection, for dozens of guests dining on elegant meals together. Tables littered the floor in a lovely arrangement, each one done up as if for an awaiting party, with a white linen tablecloth dressing the surface, and vases full of baby's breath and roses as accentuating accessories.

And in the middle of those were the king and queen, dining quietly together. Next to each other instead of across as one at the head and the other at the foot, the queen sat to the young king's right, and they were both silent in their words in that morning. Their pickings at the delicious fruit tarts, egg omelets, and specially fried duck sausages were half-hearted at best. Both were deep in thought; one in worry about what they would find and the other determined to right the wrongs that they would undoubtedly uncover.

'Fore long Maxon got to his feet, nodded in gratitude to the servers, and then extended a hand to America. "Are you ready, Ames?" he asked.

America sighed but clutched his hand like a lifeline as he practically heaved her one-armed off of the cushy seat. "I'm not looking forward to this," she said.

"I got that impression right off." Maxon kissed her forehead as she came abreast to him. She closed her eyes and soaked in the warmth of this affection before sighing once more and saying, "Well, the only way to get it done is to get started."

"Excellent advice," Maxon said.

Their walk across the dark scarlet carpet of the dining room (designed to hide numerous wine stains that would drip onto there) ended at the double white doors, which were opened by a stiff-backed butler.

"My father's words," America said blankly.

Maxon's heart ached once more for his wife as they hurried up to the third floor. By the staircase they'd given up walking like a proper couple, with elbows linked together and hands tucked into snug recesses. Maxon wanted to lift the heavy cloud flying high over his wife's downcast face, so he clutched her bare hand and raced them up the stairs. America stumbled but quickly caught sense of the king's mischievous intentions and ran along with him up the spiral marble staircase. Her morning flats flew off her feet as if they'd been troublesome heels, and her red mane of hair, tucked into a stationary state by Mary with a number of pins and a hairbrush, flew into being the untamed hair of her youth. It fell deliciously all over her shoulders and she found that mischievous air Maxon was exuding like an infection; it felt like the days of the Selection once again, sneaking around the palace to avoid vulture eyes and have little romantic trysts. However, now no one would dare stop the king and queen as they dashed up the second floor's staircase like a bunch of hyperactive teenagers. That was at least _one_ thing not changed.

They rushed up the staircase of the second floor and around to the little untouched corner of the third floor. "If we weren't trying to keep this place a secret, I'd say we should send an army of maids here," America said. Her eyes skirted around the magnificent painting sternly guarding the secret entrance to the top-secret treasure trove of royal family secrets. The portrait was of some ancient Illéan ancestor, probably hated and thus thrust from the public eye to some untouched portion of the castle.

Maxon's fingers ran searchingly along the bottom border of the frame and clicked upon the secret button. "And have them accidentally discover the library?" he said. America mulled this over as the stern personage of the picture obligingly opened the door. It seemed funny for this beautifully majestic, angry painting to conceal such a funny little entrance.

Maxon's fingers played a well-remembered tune upon the keypad, like America's fingers upon the piano. More physical memory was used than mental. Then, ever the man of chivalry, he opened up the metal door and allowed America to shrink her shoulders and head down to get past the high step. She hurried in and felt a hand down the tunnel leading to the windowless room for support.

"Hey, Maxon?" she asked, craning her head around her shoulder. She saw the faint white light of the sun pouring into the third floor's huge hall illuminate about his pitch-black figure as he carefully stepped over the threshold. Her hand fell flatter against the wall as she anticipated the moment when he closed the metal door and left them in complete darkness.

But then he flipped a light switch; _then_ he pulled on a little handle held fast to the painting to pull it back to its regular, unassuming position; _then_ he closed the metal door. He pushed his weight against it and checked the metal knob on it, and was satisfied that it didn't give under his force. Next to the knob was an exact replica of the keypad on the opposite side of the door. He hurried to America's side and said, "Yes, Ames?"

"Since I'm your wife and all now, isn't it time for you to tell me the code to the secret entrance?" America asked.

Maxon was half-concerned and half-amused. "Are you planning to have daily treks up here to read up on Gregory Illéa or something of that sort?"

"No. Well, maybe to use that computer device. My point being, however, is that I'm your wife. The queen of this country, in fact, need I remind you, and you should trust me with the code," America said firmly.

"How will I know that the queen won't abuse her power by coming here for joy trips?"

"Maxon," America almost scoffed, "I barely have time to visit my family; never mind I can take time out of my busy schedule to spend time here. It's more of a matter of trust than anything. Do you trust me enough to give me the code to one of the country's biggest secrets?"

Maxon sighed and looked at the floor. "It isn't so much the country's biggest secrets, Ames, as much as my family's."

America's voice was soft and gentle, patient. "Aren't I your family, Maxon?"

That broke him a bit. He sighed and whispered the code in a secretive murmur next to her ear. Her skin tingled with his warm breath, but that thought was discarded as he leaned out with a sober look on his face. "You realize you just whispered that to me when there's no one around?" America asked.

"There's a reason I didn't even tell the magistrates and advisers what we were doing today," Maxon said seriously. "These are the skeletons of the country's closet, diaries full of nationally alarming information. No one is to know about this, or the code, or anything."

America stared at him with her scarlet lips fell open. "You risked an awful lot letting me see this place during the Selection," she said quietly, after a long pause.

"I wanted to build trust with you." His face, aged by the grief and burdens of pressure placed on him at such an early age, was serious. Yet that soft brown, longing loving look in his beautiful eyes looked at her with great affection. "Needless to say, I trust you now."

"You doggone better," America joked.

Maxon smiled and clasped her hand; together they walked through the tunnel with the high-ceiling-ed library. He flipped the light switch on, so spots of lights suddenly illuminated like spotlights onstage. The windowless room needed the light, as the dark brown mahogany bookshelves, huge and hulking, took up much of the space alongside the walls. The red slashes on the backs of two shelves of books stood out as banned, and America felt a delicious urge to attack those first off.

An atlas splayed open and they stepped respectfully in front of it. The lines dividing the countries were different every two pages. America flipped between the world as of 2015 and the world drawn out now. Italy and the German Federation remained the same, but New Asia extended far-reachingly, eating up most of what used to be Russia and India. Illéa, young and broken, claimed much of what used to be Canada, Mexico, and South America, capturing all the tiny islands once upon a time called the Bahamas.

"I didn't know the world was so broken into tiny pieces before," America said, gazing, amazed, at the 2015 map of the world. Her finger pressed against the name AMERICA written in bold black capital letters across nearly one half of Illéa. "I know I knew more growing up about the old country, but that wasn't taught me."

"Basic ancestral knowledge is disappearing at a rapid pace," Maxon said sadly.

America decided to not dwell upon her childhood; it discouraged one to dwell on something you can't change. She walked away from Maxon and saw the huge TV screens dotting the walls. Maxon immediately descended upon the desk with a computer on it; America climbed up the stairs and the ladders along the bookshelves. She withdrew books and opened their yellow-edged pages. Breathing in the strengthening scent of ink and old paper, she broke spines and flipped through huge stacks of pages. There was so many books; not just diaries lined this place. No, besides Gregory's conspiratorial addition to literature, there were political and economical theory books, old religious texts, how-to-read books, stupid novels that Twos would buy for a moment's entertainment. Serious ranged to poetry and light-hearted humor.

"I could sit here and read all day," she said. She gently tossed through the well-loved old tales of some children's story and wandered back to a world where these were read aloud to the innocent curious ears of little kids. "I'm a Five. We're artists."

"I as well am an art appreciator," Maxon said. He tore his eyes away from the desk and placed a hand on one of the ladder's rungs. America's elbows hung out on the same level as his eyebrows. "This place was never a place for appreciation, though. Father always put this dark seriousness about it, like it was foreboding schoolwork to do instead of a plethora of information to explore."

America's grey eyes peered down from the book and she sighed, looking at her husband. "You would've made an amazing Five," she said. She bent down and held the book gently in her hands for him to view. "Look at this picture." An elegantly carved fountain was a meeting place for two simply dressed but young, admirable lovers. "They look like they could've been photographed, they look so real."

"How is your hand at painting, America?" Maxon asked curiously.

America shrugged and folded the book close. Sticking it under her elbow, she descended the ladder and, of course, multi-tasked by talking at the same time. "I was never a good painter. My natural talent lay in playing the violin and the piano. My father painted." A slight pause, and a whisper of a sigh, reminiscing for the good ol' days where there were paint splatters on her father's hair and the smell of sharp paint wafting in from their garage. "May's painting. She uses a thin brush but bold colors." Her face wrinkled when she said viciously, "There was stupid Kota and his stupid carved sculptures," and in her obvious dripping hatred of Kota, her mind was transferred to a state of stating annoyances, and wasn't focused on stepping off safely. She thus stumbled over a folded wrinkle in the ornate carpet and fell forward. Maxon caught her arm as her breath caught, and the only casualty was the children's book, as it fell, widespread and open-paged, splat onto the carpet.

"Are you all right?" Maxon immediately inquired.

"Little winded, but other than that, I think I'll survive," America said. She shuddered and Maxon's catch on her arm relaxed, relieved that the only person he loved wasn't harmed in any way, shape, or form. "I knew reading books was dangerous, but that takes things to a whole new level."

"Indeed," Maxon said, laughing at her humor. Which made America smile, as Maxon's worried looks outweighed the mass and volume of his smiles as of late.

America set the children's book on a dusty shelf and wiped after a displeasing layer of thick dust. "Maybe we should just reveal the kingdom's secrets, even if it's just to get some decent dusting in this room," she joked half-seriously.

"I believe we have a bigger job than dusting on our hands," Maxon said seriously.

 **Thanks for reading!**


	3. Valentine's Day

_**Soli Deo gloria**_

 **DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own The Selection.**

They started upon one shelf and decided to each flip through one book from the left-most spot. They fell into a heavy state of reading; America sat in a provided sofa chair with her elbow digging into the armrest, her cheek against her hand. Her demeanor spoke of being relaxed, but she was far from this. The information washed over her like a tidal wave. Gregory Illéa was an arrogant, narcissistic writer, and the cruelty with which he dealt his hand of cards to his family, friends, and fellow humans, paired with his cool serpent's tongue, made America's head swim and her heart angry. Blood pounded in her head; he wrote so matter-of-factly all these new pieces of information regarding his gradual, subtle takeover; but he wrote so much! Two pages, each as long as her arm, took twenty minutes to read in detailed, tiny writing. America quickly realized that the diary handed over to her by Maxon was from the early days, before Gregory became more engrossed with his writing.

"This is sickening," America muttered angrily.

Maxon scoffed and said, "He's talking about buying people's land for his government because they're desperate and the land's all they have."

"I've got children at five-years-old thought old enough to help the family get money enough to survive," America said bitterly. _Children_ slaving away under the hot sun, weakening before they grew up. They should be running in the sunshine and strengthening themselves instead of sweating under that harsh, cruel sun. Suddenly it was too much; the image of a sunburnt young May struck America too close to home, and clutching the stupid relic in her hands, she whispered through clenched teeth, "Is it treason to throw a book across the room?"

"I have more respect for _Twos_ magazine than for this filth, however historic and family-related it is," Maxon said. He jerked his head towards one of the stone corners and said, "Have a heave, Ames."

America stood up and with her arm thrown back as Kota had taught her to throw a baseball when they were young and he wasn't a jerk, she said, "With pleasure."

After its satisfying plop against the wall, Maxon sighed and stood up. Putting down his chosen poison on the table, he said, "My idea in coming in here was to slowly read all the thoughts of a madman, a politician who created our country's caste system, in hopes that understanding the mistakes of the past would help us undue their effect in the future."

"I think that'll take a few weeks of heavy reading and careful analysis," America said.

"Learned Threes, perhaps, would be better decipherers of this political theory than I, a One," said Maxon.

"And I, a One," America pointed out triumphantly.

"It's only more shameful than I can't figure it all out, seeing as my entire childhood was me trailing behind my father as he rattled off how to run a government. I fear most went through one ear and out the other," Maxon said. He sighed a little too miserably, as if he did indeed almost miss his father as he reminisced about him.

America came by his side and looped her arms around his strong chest, her hands clasped together in a bond over his muscular arm. She leaned her cheek against his solid, good-smelling sleeve and whispered, "Are we in agreement as to what is to be done about this tyranny, Maxon?"

"Indeed," Maxon said, nodding gravely. "Unfortunately, my plans to use these books' information will take a great deal more time than I intended to invest in it." He turned his neck and looked down at his attentive wife's face. His voice spoke of real anxiety and realization. "This will take _weeks_ , America."

America sighed. Maxon was a good man for wanting to try to dig the infection out of the gaping wound of their nation so they could heal into health properly, but he was no doctor, and the list of projects weighing heavily on the king for his motions in them hung heavy over their heads, a list so long it stood tall, the top out of sight. "You're right, Maxon," she whispered.

"Of course I'm right," her husband said teasingly. His arm encircled around her thickening waist and he laid his lips against her warm temple. "I'm the king," he said against her skin jokingly. "I'm right all the time."

"That would make you a god, which you are _not_ , Maxon," America said.

"Terribly true, correct wife of mine," Maxon said.

America smiled at him and Maxon was reminded of something, looking into those beautiful eyes with this warm glow of admiration shining at him that made him feel incredibly needed and loved. His arm withdrew from America's waist and he grabbed one of the books he'd been flipping through, shaking his head all the while, he sat on his sofa chair. Laying the book on the long studying table, he bent over the pages. While wary of the delicacy of their historical value and knowing that he mustn't damage them, as they were priceless, he also hated the author, and would've loved to see the look of horror on Gregory Illéa's face if he'd seen one of his ungrateful, delinquent descendants tearing through his personal memoirs in such a manner.

Maxon finally pointed to a particular passage and said, "I was ruminating through here for something that didn't put a pit in my stomach." He looked up to watch America as she came to his side. Her red hair fell in waves along the sides of her head as she leaned over, and the smitten husband gently tucked away the inhibiting curtain away behind her ear with the gentlest of cares and softest of touches to reveal her bewitching grey eyes accompanied by her sweet, quirked smile at him. She met his warm glowing eyes and could've stared at the fairest in the land for quite some time (indefinitely) if her attention wasn't startled back into examining the text he'd painstakingly searched for.

'In attending to social events, this week Bethany and I have celebrated our twentieth wedding anniversary on the long-lived holiday, Valentine's Day. I believe the day to be one where one is expected to pull several romantic stops in an effort to wow your spouse—it's superfluous. Half the country to conqueror and I find myself sending out attendants to buy the necessary expectations of the day: caloric chocolate, bouquets of flowers that serve no usual purpose but will instead shrivel in the next week, and a card meant to express my deepest affections to my wife. Bethany gets caught up in the romanticism of the holiday; it's a day meant to show how you love one, but instead it's just a contest; will I give my wife as many goodies as Senator Goodlex or shall his wife receive more? Hence my personal interest being lost to it; this holiday was spent eating a luxurious meal and attending an opera with my wife, both superficial, unneeded things. However, I did manage to corner Mr. Noakes at the opera to talk over our campaign for winning over the lower people of Honduragua and even Angeles, a city that has caught my attention as perhaps being the new capital of this bright new nation I am puzzling together. . .'

"Valentine's Day," America whispered.

"Gregory Illéa, a strict, stingy Scrooge of a man if there ever was one, thought it a stupid holiday which his wife obliviously liked," Maxon commented.

America frowned. "I don't like Gregory Illéa much, but his wife, Bethany, well, I think she was hopelessly oblivious to her husband's true thoughts and feelings about ruling the country. I mean, she knew he wanted the whole family on it"—America thought with angry horror of Gregory's arranged marriage for his poor daughter, Katherine, a girl enslaved to do her father's bidding for the bettering of his political ties—"but I don't think she thought he thought so little of her."

Maxon sighed. "The men in my family are suppressors by nature. Their wives are the closest, thus the easiest to do their bidding."

America noticed the sad, worried tone of his voice and said quickly, before any stupid ideas could formulate in his head that he would believe in wholeheartedly, "You're nothing like Gregory Illéa, Maxon. You're fixing this country, not degrading it. And you're not your father. You have too much respect and compassion to turn out like him."

"I know," Maxon said. "I don't wish to keep the traits of him that I hate the most, but . . ." he sighed once more. Sighing was one of the most expressive, frequent of his nervous habits these days. "I hope I do embody the good things about him, like his leadership skills, his quick decisiveness, his unfailing convictions." He shut the book and met America's eyes. "I feel like he was blind to what was the worst in him. But I believe that he had good intentions at heart."

America felt that Maxon blinded himself by his love for his father. No matter the ill-treatment given him by his father, the physical misery and scars inflicted on him, the mental and verbal abuse that'd become commonplace because of its frequency, or the lack of trust or confidence his father had in him, Maxon still beheld him on this pedestal because he was his father. It was natural. America did the same with her father, but she knew, from an objective standpoint, that no matter the level of affection each beheld their father with, it was clear which father was better to their child.

The new king and queen had spent long, sleepless nights with open windows breathing the palace full of warm balmy Angeles air. They whispered together face-to-face in one of their rooms' beds, discussing such deep personal wounds of the soul as this of the late King Clarkson. Whispers in the faint Illéan shadows played across their faces; many a night in such closeness, intimate words had passed between these two, and so America didn't want to rehash their conversations right now. Every time she'd asserted into Maxon's brain that he was worth something wonderful, and his father's opinion of him didn't define his value as a person, a man, a king, a leader, or a husband. But twenty years in the man's presence took a lot to unravel and replace, and so Maxon's thoughts were always torn between his father's words and America's strong assertions.

"You're making progress in this country. Remember that, okay?" America said, insisting in her hand's hold in Maxon's.

He smiled and said, "You're a very demanding woman."

"And you wouldn't have me any other way," America quipped back.

"Indeed, mind-reader," Maxon said. His brown eyes flickered back from the book to America and he said, "Now, back to this Valentine's Day. . . I think it is a holiday worth reintroducing back into our society."

America frowned. "Gregory's Valentine's Day seems to indicate that Valentine's Day is a day to splurge. If it were to be a holiday here in this country right now, only the Twos and Threes would bother with it. Any caste below them wouldn't splurge on unnecessary—"

"Are you calling chocolate unnecessary?" Maxon asked, amused.

"I'm being _practical_ , Maxon," America said, half-severely and half-seeing-his-jest-and-being-amused. "No one below a Three would celebrate, and it would be looked at with scorn by the Fours and below as being a stupid, frivolous holiday for the upper castes; they'd hate it rather than celebrate it."

"For sure it would, if that were the way to go about it—marketing it as a day for the merchants to make extra sales and for all to spend extra money which would rather be spent towards supporting families and thereby building up the structure of Illéa," Maxon acknowledged. "But my thoughts about this Valentine's Day is that it is meant as a romantic, loving day, rather than one for which you're supposed to spend weeks' worth pay to celebrate. What if there's no buying anything? It's a simple holiday meant to celebrate love and affection in all forms, whether it be brotherly, patriotic for Illéa, familial, friendly, or romantic love," Maxon said. He tilted his head against America's, his cheek against hers, his nose against the hair past her temple. He closed his eyes and thus gave America a moment to see in her mind's eye a holiday well and accepted by all castes as a day set aside to celebrate love in all its shapes and forms, without a penny spent. Celebrating _could_ mean romantic dinners, gifts of jewelry and chocolates, and expensive promises for the upper castes, or perhaps it could mean an hour spent on a threadbare worn couch talking in warm atmosphere and tone with one you love about hopes, dreams, and love.

Maxon stepped back and looked into her clear silver eyes. And America said, "That sounds like a worthy holiday, Maxon."

"So shall we pursue it?" Maxon asked wonderingly.

"Yes," America affirmed, which only made her pleased husband beam.

 **Thanks for reading!**


	4. 3 AM Cuddles

_**Soli Deo gloria**_

 **DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own The Selection.**

Silvia's opinion of celebrating this holiday was sniffly at best. This meant that as Mary brushed the new queen's hair in the mirror sitting atop the white-jeweled dresser, the coordinator and queen's assistant sniffed at the finishing of America's explanation. "Illéa is set in its ways at the moment and won't take to this idea of taking time out of its busy lives to celebrate love," Silvia said matter-of-factly.

"I think it's a perfectly lovely idea, miss," Mary informed America. She had never quite gotten out of the habit of calling the newly coronated queen of Illéa 'miss', as if she wasn't married.

"Thank you, Mary," America said, relieved.

Silvia's back straightened and she looked more and more prickly about the idea, strengthened by the indignation that America approved of Mary's response over her own blunt one. "Gregory Illéa's memory isn't fashionable among the castes, as several surveys and polls has revealed," Silvia said. "They won't take kindly to celebrating the man's holiday." Silvia refrained from saying 'the dictator's', as despite his character flaws, Gregory had been a strong leader who'd knitted the broken pieces of the country together. He was deserving respect in some regards.

"It isn't Gregory Illéa's holiday; it was a holiday long before he was alive," America informed Silvia. She hadn't a veritable source about this, but she was confident enough in using logic to deduce it. "And we're not enforcing it as a holiday. Maxon and I mean to just celebrate it and encourage our friends, the Elite and other nobility, to celebrate it as well, for it's a noble cause, even if you don't like it, Silvia." America faced Silvia's eyes reflecting back at her in the mirror, and Silvia was forced to look away from America's pale stony-set stare. "Maxon and I will advocate it as simply being a loving holiday, and soon it'll dawn on the eyes of all the castes that this isn't a scheme we're trying to sell at all."

"They'll be suspicious of it," Silvia said.

"It'll be seen as a fashionable thing," Mary suddenly said. She blushed at America's and Silvia's eyes on her. "Well, everyone in Illéa likes the monarchy. Everyone's grown warm to Maxon, since he's grown up with them, but Miss America is the people's favorite, even from the time of the Selection. They like her, and if she does something, they'll want to imitate her. If she and the King were to celebrate a holiday, people would want to do it the same as them."

Mary, while living in the Palace, was of a low caste, and therefore represented the thoughts of many of the people. America beamed at her words and turned triumphantly to Silvia, who rolled her eyes. "I shall tell Gavril and he can announce it on the _Report_ this Friday," Silvia said. She checked a few little boxes on her clipboard. "What have you and the king have planned, Your Highness?"

"I don't know what Maxon has planned," America confessed, but with a twinkling of mischief in her eye. "But I've got a couple of ideas of my own." And for no reason in particular, Silvia was both aghast and interested in the intentions of the bright-eyed queen.

* * *

Maxon fell asleep past three in the morning of the Saturday he and America had appointed their Valentine's Day. The evening before had been devoted to a little interview with Gavril on the _Report_ and sneaking in as many coy PDAs in without Silvia's face flashing alarm. He'd had a moment behind the scenes afterwards, with the cameras rushing about to be put away, Gavril being instructed in some new news from the province of Blah blah that would have to be squeezed into next week's _Report_ , holding the hands of his beloved wife and nuzzling noses together. Her grey eyes remained shut for the duration of their stolen moment, her ears perked up to catch every softly murmured word that fell from his mouth. The lilt of her pink mouth quirked up at little moments that made Maxon want to hide it in his own ; he himself kept his eyes open, just to catch a half-glimpse of her before they were dragged apart.

Silvia marched America off for a momentary look-over at Friday's mail (more family letters than peasant requests, to America's relief) and Maxon immediately attended a stat meeting about the numbers of soldiers occupying territories in New Asia. It ran longer than scheduled, so supper was brought in so the advisers, informants, and invite-only soldiers and the king could eat and continue business. But while eating delicious basil chicken, Maxon's heart was only half devoted to paying attention to these vital updates. The other half of his heart was devoted to a redhead bouncing around the castle, following Silvia around and planning several little delicious secret things for him. He was as much a youthful prince as he was in the days of his adolescence, when Father rapped his knuckles against the table to call his attention from wandering to the girls of the Selection to the problems bombarding their poor little country.

Maxon sat in that meeting until eleven that night and America finished her queenly work going over the beginnings of her own charitable projects by eight, and wished by then to happen upon the conference room where her husband was being lectured to death with information he must store away to be pulled out at any moment, and be left in his presence for the remainder of the evening. But America was the bane of the advisers' existence; they had a growly dislike of her because, being of King Clarkson's rule, they were all for his opinions, and needless to say, King Clarkson's views of America was she wasn't good for the country or his son. She wasn't his choice, therefore she wasn't their choice, therefore they didn't like her popping up at odd moments to hang around the king and steal his attention from situations in which his heart and soul must be fully absorbed.

America then spent the rest of her evening indulging and crying over her family letters, mopping up with handkerchiefs and laughing self-deprecatingly at herself when Mary came in to help her dress and found the queen of Illéa in a weepy red-eyed mess. "I know they all live in that little house Maxon got for them," America said aggressively to herself. She wiped up her tears, laid aside the stained letters, and attempted to pull herself back to normal. "But Maxon and I are so busy all the time; we get through the day's to-do list and are glad just to fall into bed together at the end of it. Weekends are for sleeping in and rests and still things need attention then. Sometimes we forget that you need to put time aside to see them." America picked up a letter and sniffed. "Mom made chicken enchiladas, my childhood favorite. And she's planting a good herb garden and big vegetable garden, with Gerad breaking the sod. She thinks it'll do better here in Angeles with our humid temperatures than it did in Carolina, where the ground was rocky and sandy." America broke into a peal of half-crackly reminiscent laughter and said, "Kota and I used to make mud pies from the broken sod in our backyard." The mention of the hated Kota sobered America up, and she gathered her letters into a pile with a sneering sniff. But then that broke as she said, "May got her ears pierced. James says Astra is walking, and Kenna is loving keeping up the house." America looked about the room, empty except for Mary, who was preparing a hot bath for the emotional queen, and said, "For such a big palace, it's awfully lonely here when the only family here is often gone working."

"Don't worry, Miss America," Mary said. She helped miserable America up from her sofa chair and said, "Soon there'll be the pitter patter of little feet all over these halls."

"And children's laughter," America said, sighing softly. She scoffed and said lightly, "Not at the rate we're going. We fall into bed just to shut our eyes and wake up to the morning." America privately added another thing to her list of things to do with Maxon tomorrow for Valentine's Day.

America went to sleep at half-past ten and stirred at three. Dusky night fell around her as she opened her eyes and saw the creaking, groaning figure of her husband rubbing his feet and stripping himself of his half-buttoned shirt. "Long night?" America asked sleepily.

Maxon sighed and facing her, "Yes, love. And up soon enough." He didn't bother to brush his teeth or decompress or do any nightly rituals, too tired to care. He lay beside her, sighs escaping him as his closed eyes cringed. He snuggled to face her on his side, trying as he might to find a comfortable position for his aching limbs. "Can you believe me when I say I wanted to work out after sitting at the conference table for hours on end?" Maxon said. He winced and said jokingly, "Bad idea."

"I get that," America said. Her fingers tangled around his tired lifeless ones and held them close. "You felt useless for hours on end and wanted physical exhaustion as much as the mental exhaustion you had."

Maxon smiled that gentle boyish smile America had come to relish over the years, sweet and sincere, with a little glint of light in it. "You understand too well, love," he said.

"I used to walk around halls for hours on end some days when I couldn't sit still in Silvia's princess classes," America confided.

"Lecturing makes one antsy," Maxon agreed.

America would've spoken but yawned instead. Maxon said, "No more talking, America. I don't think either of us should stay up any longer. We're busy tomorrow."

"Yes, with our Valentine's Day," America said excitedly.

"We don't get to celebrate that until the afternoon, though," Maxon said, his voice as low as a whisper. His voice's volume was drifting lower and lower as his energy level, already low when he laid down in bed, drained him almost completely. "I've got my entire morning scheduled out to the last second; I'm up at six and will probably play catch-up all morning. I'm looking forward to it." His eyes had fallen closed but a corner of his mouth lifted in quiet amusement.

America beamed at her blind husband and kissed his fingers with delicate lips. Then she scooted closer and said, her warm breath heating his ear and neck, "You don't have anything to do tomorrow."

Maxon's eyes, as expected, shot open. "What?" he said, confused.

"I talked with Silvia, and we downsized dramatic meetings over nothing to fit into little cracks of next week's schedule, some even being eliminated because they can be taken care of just by advisers; we don't need your eye to look at absolutely everything unless it's of national importance. I highly doubt the bathroom conditions standards of public buildings owned by wealthy Twos counts as such," America smirked.

Maxon's eyes, a mixture of liquid bronze and gold, stared, amazed, at the woman before him, who was tickled pink to have surprised her husband so thoroughly. "America, _thank you_ ," he said, breathless. "How'd you manage that?"

"Silvia is a woman-wonder," America said, eliciting one of his delightful, soul-satisfying laughs. She clasped his fingers tighter and said, as if she was an expert on the subject, "After all, on Valentine's Day you're supposed to do nice things for your loved ones."

"It's not Valentine's Day yet," Maxon said, poking fun at her.

"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, Maxon," warned his sweet wife.

His eyes went wide. "You got me a horse as well?" he said, shocked.

"No, I did not," America said. "But that reminds me . . . would you like to go horse-riding tomorrow, just the two of us?"

"Horseback-riding?" Maxon questioned, surprised by this unusual request. America was a girl who grew up indoors cultivating her singing voice, practicing endlessly on her violin and piano, and occasionally taking a try at painting at her father's patient side, usually failing. Horseback-riding had always been something he'd done with Kriss, who was a girl who loved the robust outdoors, fresh air, and the raw simplicity of being out in nature. "I never knew you were a fan."

America shrugged the best she could covered in a pile of soft, airy covers. "I know that you like it, because you used to do it with Kriss." An idea suddenly came to her: ". . . unless you simply endured it for her sake?"

Maxon laughed, a little chuckle. No longer did mention of any of the Selected cause any uneasy tension between them; Kriss had attended their wedding and congratulated them both, and was so quickly married after the Selection was ended that her maiden name disappeared into lost memory. She was a good friend of the monarchy, and occasionally came over for big group visits or for individual intimate talks with America. "I like it on my own accord, America," Maxon said. "My mother, growing up in Honduragua, had never ridden a horse before she came to the palace. She and I used to go every afternoon in my childhood's middling years, escaping from castle walls and also enjoying one another's company as we stamped all over the palace grounds." Maxon smiled a wistful little smile. "Father, usually so stern, turned a blind eye to our destroying of the grounds. The horseback-riding brought color back to my mother's cheeks, and Father, though he didn't oft show it, cared deeply for my mother, and was always ready to do anything for the good of her delicate health." Maxon sighed to himself and murmured, almost to himself as a note for later, "We need to change the conditions for workers in Honduragua."

"We will." America squeezed his hands. "But Rome wasn't built in a day."

"Where was Rome, anyway?" Maxon said, flipping from quiet musing to loud curious questioning.

America's eyebrows furrowed. "I think Nicoletta said it was once in Italy, and, according to her history, Rome was the biggest empire in the entire world at one point!"

"But Italy is so small!" said the amazed Maxon.

America calmed down from her laughter and said, "I don't know if Nicoletta was pulling my leg or not."

"Wow. Fascinating. Gives one hope for Illéa, doesn't it?" Maxon joked. "Okay. Wow." Then he looked adorably confused. "Where was I?"

"Horseback-riding," America giggled, gently pushing aside locks of hair from her husband's forehead. She privately thought _You should really go to sleep, darling._

"Ah, yes, horseback-riding. No, I like it of my own accord, _thank you very much_ ," he included teasingly. "So I would _love_ to take a ride with you about the grounds."

"So wait, we can actually do it, without being surrounded by a fleet of soldiers on horses trying desperately to keep up?" America questioned, raising her eyebrows.

"Are you comparing our palace guards to an armada of warships?"

"What if I am?"

"Just clarifying," Maxon assured her. "No, no need. The security cameras about the grounds are set up to have them keep a babysitting eye on us without standing within eyesight. Besides, there are countless guards running around the perimeter of the palace grounds outside the wall. Any sign of invaders will be thwarted before the invasion can be delivered as fresh and alarming to me atop my valiant steed."

America frowned. "That makes me feel smothered rather than protected."

Maxon sighed and kissed her fingertips himself. "As is the cost of being the most important in the land of all of Illéa, my love."

That thought made America mull over her own caste-changing—a Five to a Three to a One, steadily climbing upwards two at a time. She crept up faster and up more castes than her own snobby brother did. "It still amazes me that you married a commoner," America said.

"It's a little flash for all the castes, isn't it?" Maxon whispered thoughtfully. "I suppose to keep them with their heads down but their chins up with the slightest of hopes, that they or their sisters or daughters could easily become the next newest One of all Illéa." Maxon leaned closer so that their noses nuzzled and the tip of his was warm against America's skin. "We'll change the castes, though, America. That thinking, that mindset, will change."

"It was a lovely far-off hope to have, though I didn't believe in it actually happening until halfway through the Selection," America said.

"Dozens of other girls would've given their right arm to be in your spot and you kicked me in the groin!" said the teasing husband.

"Ungrateful, wasn't I?" America whispered, already crossed into sleep as well.

And that's how they fell asleep so late into the night—facing each other, hands clasped, breathing synced, their last words teasing, comforting little things.

 **Thanks for reading!**


	5. Breakfast in Bedroom

_**Soli Deo gloria**_

 **DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own The Selection. Thanks for the reviews, guys! :)**

The king and queen woke up to a late sleep-in; at least, Maxon did. America was up by seven and breathing in the fresh clean air of Angeles as white sunlight filled the room. She showered in heavenly scents by herself, having called Mary on a line extending to the maids' room on the first floor to tell her to forgo her care until that afternoon. She brushed her auburn hair in the crystal clear mirror and put on a delightful light baby blue dress. She worn no shoes, deciding on bare feet this fine, fine day, and answered the door herself when a knock called her to it.

Lucy peeped from behind the fine white door, her delicate white face eager with anticipation. "Is His Highness up yet?" she whispered as America wished her good morning and expanded the crack in the door. Lucy tiptoed in as America shut the door and shook her head. "He got in at three last night, poor thing," America said, waving a hand to the deeply slumbering figure hidden by soft white coverlets.

"His Highness does an awful lot of office work," Lucy said sympathetically. She set down the heavy tray she'd begged to carry up on a white table with intricately carved legs near the balcony. America watched, feeling hungry, as Lucy unloaded her bounty: from the tray she took out shining white china plates—two of each three sizes—white linen napkins folded nicely, silverware gleaming in the white sunlight, and goblets. She arranged each next to one other and switched the opposite-facing chairs to alongside each other. "Wouldn't do for you and His Highness to be far apart today," Lucy explained. Then she produced the dishes the kitchen had whipped together with all the knowledge of cookery and baking: hot brown toast steamy and reeking of melted butter and cinnamon; delicately cooked fried eggs with deliciously crispy edges and sunny-yellow yolks; crispy yet fluffy waffles stacked sky-high; golden slender pitchers of shiny sticky sappy maple syrup; quivering red jellies and thick berry chutney and apple-onion jam; thick-cut bacon with tidbits slightly white with not-rendered fat and some almost the color of chocolate for having gotten so fried; sausages smelling heavenly of sage and garlic; strawberry tarts gleaming shiny red with fluffy white filling peeking through the edges around the yellow flaky pastry; fresh fruit such as orange melons and dewy green ones sliced together in a delicious array like a flower, pink-red added with seedless watermelon. There were cool smoothies with scents of lemon, mango, and papaya set next to each goblet, along with a pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice and tender golden-brown biscuits.

America stared, somewhat amazed. "How did you carry all that up the stairs, Lucy?"

"We have elevators for the staff," Lucy said calmly. She stepped back and surveyed her handiwork. "Oh! I almost forgot!" She stepped to the old-fashioned dumbwaiter near the bathroom door and took out a white tall vase, out of which extended gorgeous pink-streaked Easter lilies. "The final touch," she announced once it took center-stage on the table.

America could almost cry, she was so pleased. "Lucy, I need to hug you." And Lucy, ever obliging, blushed and accepted the big embrace that queen delivered. They withdrew and America said, "We don't need anyone serving us right now. Feel free to go downstairs and eat a strawberry tart for me."

Lucy got the subtle intonation of America wanting to be alone with just Maxon, and remembering such moments of her own with the incredibly romantic Aspen, blushed in memory and said, "Of course, Miss." She left to go attend her own man receiving his piping hot breakfast at the communal servants' table in the kitchens.

America knew that while the seductive whiff of the floral strawberry tarts and the comforting intoxication of hot bacon would've woken her up a long time ago, Maxon was in a state of deep exhaustive sleep, and his hunger for unconsciousness would have to be jarred for him to wake up and have a hunger for food instead. Her hands gently shook his shoulder, but no dice. So she bit her lip and thought quickly of something. The heels of her palms crushed into his tense shoulders and her fingers ground into his fine skin. While painful for most people, this was a deep tissue message for Maxon, always tense. He awoke with a groan and a tightening of his grip on the pillow. His low moan convinced America that her case was very persuasive. And to finish the job, America, merciless, leaned down next to him and pressed a kiss to the soft skin right where his cheek ended at his hairline. She whispered in his ear, "Good morning, Maxon. Happy Valentine's Day."

Maxon responded by growling and grunting low under his breath as he slowly gradually flipped over to look up at his wife in her baby blue dress pooling around her in swirls of layered silk. His brown eyes came into focus and he said, "Well, I am dead."

"What?" America said, confused.

"I went to bed alive, I'm sure of it," said Maxon as he pulled himself up. He leaned his back against the tall head of the bed; the airy coverlets over him and shirtless (somehow he'd lost his shirt during the night), he reminded America then slightly of the Maxon she'd come upon a couple of days after the shooting in the palace and the death of his parents: settled back, almost relaxed, but kingly. He looked at her and said ever-so-cheesily, "But I've woken up to heaven. So the only reasonable solution is that I'm dead and you're a gorgeous angel. Oh wait. America, you didn't die, did you?" He grasped her fingers and the concern in his voice almost sounded like he believed it.

"No, but if I did, I would've had good timing. I don't think either of us could last long on Earth without the other," America said warmly, squeezing his fingers back.

"Good plan. When I die, you die, or if you die first, I'll be there right at your heel," Maxon said decidedly.

"Sounds like a suicide pact. Good plan," America repeated him, amused.

Maxon smiled at her with a tired quirk of his lovely mouth. "Good morning, America," he said softly, like a caress.

"Good morning, Maxon," America said. She looked thrilled with anticipation. "Ready for Valentine's Day?"

"Oh, am I," he said. But then he closed his eyes. "After a few minutes more, my dear."

The 'my dear' sufficed to fuel America tugging her husband away from the beckoning pull of sleep into the land of the living. " _THAT_ costs you your sleep, Your Highness. Up and at 'em. The kitchen staff have worked themselves half to death poring over hot stoves since dawn cooking you a holiday breakfast and you're going to eat it, with _your wife_ "—this was added with amusement and emphasis—"while it is still hot."

"I don't think they so much slaved over it for me as much as for you, America," Maxon grumbled, throwing a sly eye at the table. He looked back at America with an amused look. "Are those strawberry tarts?"

America smacked him with a pillow and laughing, he finally got up. He half-buttoned a white polo over a white tank and America, who thought he was taking his sweet, sweet time to prolong the task while her stomach rumbled impatiently in the meanwhile, hopped up from her chair and finished buttoning the last few. She focused solely on her task with clever fingers used to a piano with a determined purpose, leaving her husband with nothing to do but stare at her sharp beautiful face. Finished, she left the last button right below his collar open, leaving some chest exposed and an air of relaxed casualness on him. "There," America said, patting her handiwork.

They breakfasted like a honeymoon couple in their newlywed suite. Their crystal goblets full of quivering, shivering liquids the colors of jewels were drained; piles of food depleted, mostly by America, who ate as she listened, ate as she talked, and tried in vain to cover her mouth when she discovered herself doing so. "If I ever did that at an international dinner Silvia would have a heart attack right then and there," she said as she pulled a curtain of a linen napkin over her lips to hide the mistake from her audience.

"That's true. But perhaps your perfect conduct on yesterday's _Report_ will remind her of your ability to act nicely when you can, and strengthen her faith in you," Maxon said, amused. America _did_ tend to do unsavory not-camera-ready things.

"Well, if she just saw me," America said, after swallowing and putting the babyish napkin aside, "her faith would've been destroyed, trust broken, and the palace would fall apart, because the housekeeper and the queen wouldn't get along."

"Oh no. What a horrible scenario," Maxon said, amused.

America smiled wistfully at him then, and Maxon looked increasingly alarmed. "What is it, love?"

"This is nice, Max," America said quietly. She leaned back in her seat and tried to explain her feelings; she wasn't good at it. She hadn't been in her teenage years, even to herself, and was now still fumbling for the right words. Maxon sat back in his seat as well, that serious line in his forehead, that searching look in his eyes, that set to his chin and jaw and lips. "I just . . . when I was a girl, I never thought that my life would be like this. This happy, this luxurious"—she waved to the white gorgeous furniture filling out her bedroom—"with enough to eat, relative safety. I mean, I never imagined that I'd have rebels invading my home—"

"Their number of attacks have decreased ever since August made sure his team was out of the game," Maxon reminded her quietly, not wanting to stop her with this slight interruption.

"—the fact that there are men here willing to die to protect me still astounds me." America had referred to the guards, but now as she looked at her husband, she saw a man who would've died to protect her. He'd taken a bullet for her, and thank God he was still alive.

She breathed deeply and just said, "I never expected my life to end up like this." She'd had these visions of her future as a sixteen-year-old girl in a secret relationship with the protective, romantic Aspen. Oh, they would've gotten married once they'd saved enough; she'd move down a caste but she'd be with _him_. They might've had a tiny house of their own in the grey packed streets where many Sixes lived, or packed in like sardines with his mother and siblings. She would've grown accustomed to the new jobs offered to her as those exclusive to the caste of the Sixes, or she would've had babies, a big family, like Aspen's. And they would've been poor, worried, scrunched together, with no privacy, no safety net, no relaxation or a moment's break, but they would've had hope, love, and laughter.

What a different life she might've lived if she hadn't entered the Selection to satisfy the unselfish ambitions of her mother and Aspen, who just wanted her to have a better chance for a better life than the one she was destined for. And she got Maxon.

Maxon didn't say a word as she wiped a clear tear away from her shining grey eyes, but he clasped her hand in his, and that was all she needed to recover. They then continued eating.

"Open, my love," Maxon said, and America took a big, crumbly bite of the strawberry tart he offered. She put a hand to her mouth and mumbled around her food, "You're making me a fat queen."

"Excellent, my plan is working," teased Maxon, earning him a swat to the arm by America. She knew that one of her husband's recurring fears was that somehow, she'd remain hungry, as she had been sometimes in her youth. He'd never forgotten the moment she'd divulged that innocent yet painful piece of cruelty, and she never forgot his reaction. But still, after more than two years of living in the lap of palace luxury, one could get dangerously chubby and short of breath after a simple ascent up some stairs!

Within a few minutes they'd reduced the table to drips and crumbs. Whipped cream stuck on America's corner of lips was kissed away by her husband, and they leaned back in their elegant yet comfortable (a theme in the beautifully sensible palace) chairs and drank in the sight of each other slowly and deeply, like red wine, as they sipped physically away at their morning juice and coffee. Maxon was tea, and America was coffee, to her amusement. Delicate tea for the head ruler of their country and alarm clock coffee for his wife.

"What should we do this morning?" America wondered.

"To be honest, it's quite nice just to sit and gaze at you, my darling," admitted the besotted king.

"We would gaze at each other quite well from the bed," America said, gesturing innocently to it with expressive eyebrows.

 **Thanks for reading!**


	6. Photo-Shoot

_**Soli Deo gloria**_

 **DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own The Selection.**

Lucy was eventually called to clear away the mess the two monarchs left. She met Mary in the hallway with a tray in her white hands, a smile on her white pretty face. "His Highness is laying on the bed on his side," she described to Mary, who was always with a ready ear to hear of her lady, "and Her Highness is painting something."

Maxon, still in his pajamas, lay atop the ruffled white sheets of the grand bed and stared with no smile on his face but in his eyes at his wife. His wife hardly noticed his steadfast sincere gaze but only from time to time. America sat back on her knees, the folds of her flowy dress surrounding her legs and barefeet. She held a thick pad of white paper in her hand; at the head of the bed, atop the circle-dented queen's pillow, was a long flat ridged tray. Flat on it lay in steady rows of darkening colors a rainbow varied selection of sharpened fine-point coloring pencils. A little sharpener sat next to them, ready at a moment's notice for her convenience.

America's fine rich red hair fell loosely about her shoulders. Her grey eyes squinted and sought as her deft hands led the pencil around. She was definitely a singer, as her maiden name said, and felt more comfortable and in control of her song or the keys of a piano, but her father had long ago taught her how to draw. She drew lightly at first, just for a general outline; any mistakes wouldn't be easily found. She added texture, curved with the grain of the paper, added shadow and quick, deft strokes. Each like tsk and click of her tongue as she applied the addition of an eraser made Maxon comment in one way or another. "Oh, I hope you're not erasing my arm." "My hair looks wrong, doesn't it?" "Do you need to make my terribly huge muscles larger?" "'Oops?' That isn't a good sign, my dear."

The tip of her pencil snapped, and she viciously threw the eraser at her defensive husband. His hands went up as he shook with laughter to protect his body from the cannon-fire of a smirking redhead. He managed to escape without any further attempt at bodily injury as America, without a word, returned to her drawing.

"If you say anything like that again, I will draw you some devil's horns and a French mustache," America relayed to him calmly.

Maxon looked rightfully worried. "I should be concerned, then." Then he grew to being impatient, the silly king. He tapped his sheets with fidgety fingerprints. Biting his lip, he looked up at his cold-hearted, stony-faced wife, and said, "Can I look?"

"Hmmm, no."

"Silly woman. I am your king. My demand is royal order."

"Hmmm, silly man. I am your _wife_." She said no more, knowing that to be enough.

Maxon sighed and laid on his back. He'd been leaning on an elbow, lifting himself as with hope to lean over the top of the picture and see what his wife's hands had drawn out. Now he stared up at the ceiling and the shirt he wore fell flat against his chest. Every inhale he swallowed and released made America feel more and more grateful that he existed there at all. Every passing second made her try harder to focus on her task; her eyes more and more turned back to stare steadily, gratefully, at her husband, who looked up as if he didn't know she was there at all. But she forced herself to continue her drawing of him, though with each second she wanted to throw away her hard work and lay her head against his chest and feel the reverberating comfort of his thumping, living heart in her ear.

Finally she got to the point where all she needed were colors. She tickled him by laying several tan, some almost orange or sandy, pencils against his skin, trying to find his skin tone.

"It's even harder with makeup," she said matter-of-factly.

"I believe it goes without saying that I am relieved that I am a man, and not a woman, for being a woman sounds harder to be," Maxon confessed.

America looked at that uncomplicated man, and laughed weakly. "You know the truth, Max," she said. She quickly forced much efficient work into three minutes and finished coloring him in, including dark highlights for his golden hair. "There," she said unceremoniously. She tossed the hard work of two hours upon his chest with reckless abandon and snuggled her hair and nose against the crook of his shoulder. He jolted a little, from the sudden weight on his chest and the tickling sensation produced by his little doting wife. But he settled back and was quite welcome to this new arrangement.

America was, too. She closed her eyes as Maxon held her painting straight above his head to concentrate on. She was more than a little irritated by her husband sitting up straighter against the head of their bed to take a better angle at viewing the picture. "You moved without warning. That's unfair," she declared. She, offended, mumbled as she pushed herself up and leaned most of her weight against his solid chest, lulled to complacency by the steady reassuring lullaby of his heart.

"Ames," breathed Maxon, "this is amazing."

"Hmmm. Okay, sure," America mumbled.

"America!" Maxon exclaimed, rubbing her shoulder and forcing her to groan and open her eyes against her will. "This is great work. I could never hope to produce anything like this."

"It's just a sketch. It's hardly anything good. You should see more of my dad's paintings. Those are pieces of art you'd actually pay for," America smiled reminiscently. "May's got his talent with the brush. Kenna's more with an artistic eye, like my mother. She can arrange a vase full of flowers, or arrange a roomful of furniture."

"Did any of you take pictures at all?" Maxon wondered aloud, curious. His own lackluster childhood combined with the death of his father-in-law always made him curious about the life America's family lived. He ached after the stories and feelings of siblings, about the moments of teaching and learning from her father, of the doting and nagging but tangible love of her mother. His own mother, while affectionate and loving, could only display so many internal feelings of devotion and love while being an authoritative One aiding in running the country most predominantly run by Clarkson Schreave.

"No. We didn't have a camera. Occasionally we'd get our pictures taken at a big social event and cut them out of the newspapers they were printed in the next day. A few years ago, when we had enough money, at Christmas time we'd all get together at the house of someone with a camera, the Canyers, and we'd get individual shots and a big family portrait. That's about it. Dad would paint pictures of us that were so near likenesses that we hung those around our house."

"That sounds wonderful, having hand-painted portraits of everyone hung up. They'd look so artistic, yet homemade, and crafty, and wonderful," said Maxon. He frowned, a crease in his otherwise hopeful, humor-filled face. "I wish I had paintings of my mother and father."

America tilted her head to look into his face with her own worried frown. "You have pictures of them, don't you?"

Maxon laughed. "There are more images of my parents than of several lower castes put together. We have camera tapes of every single _Report_ ever aired. I used to watch my mother's Selection with her on slow rainy days in my childhood. I took pictures of her in the gardens and at international functions and celebrations. Sometimes, usually in a public setting, I found Father in a good humor, and he'd smile for my pictures. I'd sit up late those nights and flip through the pictures on my camera, wishing that same man to remain like that all the time." He cleared his throat and continued, "No, there are portraits painted of King Clarkson and Queen Amberly. They hang on the walls of the throne room, as you know. But they're there as king and queen amongst Gregory Illéa, Justin and Porter, my ancestral relations who I don't know. They're there as royalty, not as my parents. I wish I had a simple portrait of each of them that didn't portray them as Ones, but as my mom and dad."

America played with his fingers in a tender manner. She laid her head back against his chest and thought of that day, that one day that changed the life of Maxon, of her, and of the entire kingdom forever. The last day of the Selection, with the near-announcement of Maxon's marriage to Kriss Ambers, the rebel attack that slaughtered Celeste Newsome without a chance, that gave Queen Amberly her last act of sacrifice that resulted in her death; but the death of her husband couldn't be prevented. Maxon nearly died from a bullet shot, and he lost both parents, one affectionate, one abusive, both who loved him in their own ways. He'd been so young, only nineteen, and he was only twenty-one now. According to some old outdated laws, he'd just be the legal age to drink alcohol, which was now served routinely at social events to all sixteen and up.

He was just so young to have such a burden of grief and responsibility laid on his shoulders, and though a One he was, the most powerful ruler in the entire land, he still longed for the simplest of things—a _real_ lasting image of his mother and father. He was still a young man, a boy, whose wistful thought was for his father and mother.

And America had an idea.

Maxon said, in a lighter tone, "Well, I've got an idea."

America was immediately interested. "What sort of idea?" she asked suggestively.

"Your mind is in the gutter, Ames," Maxon said.

"Maybe," America said, as Maxon slid out from under her and off the warm white bed.

"My idea involves beauty, flash, and memories," Maxon said.

America knew her husband well enough to know what a combination of those three words meant. "Not in this outfit, Maxon," she declared, scuttling from the bed.

"But you look so young and fresh and radiant, my dear, in that gown," Maxon teased, opening the door leading from the Queen's suite to the King's.

"I will not have you take pictures of me in my underdress!" America announced. (It was a luxurious lounging dress she wore that was basically like a fancy underdress—not something you want to get caught wearing outside a bedroom.) She flung open white carved drawers from her dresser and pounced upon the garments, tossing them about and rummaging. It hadn't crossed her mind to call the stylish eyes of Mary and Lucy into the room; she didn't care how bad and shaggy or how glamorous she looked when Maxon leapt upon her with his flashing camera; it only mattered that she wasn't wearing her stupid nightdress!

She found a pair of slimming black yoga pants. The shirts drawer was thrust open and destroyed in matters of organization, ruining a good half hour of careful work from Mary; Maxon's feet destroying the ground between them were coming closer and closer!

A baby blue blouse, with flounces; yes, excellent. America snatched up a bra and made a mad pursuit for her bathroom.

Maxon came running through the doorway separating their roomd; his shirt hung raggedly, with buttons undone and sleeves pulled up; his roguish golden-blonde hair was straggly and spiky and adorably untamed. He held up to his eyes a slim little rectangle of silver camera, and said, "Say 'Illéa', Ames!"

America sidestepped and ran for her walk-in closet, much closer than the bathroom. She dared a huffy look over her shoulder at the flashing camera her husband produced. "Stop it, Maxon! It's bad enough there's paparazzi when we attend outside-the-palace events!" She flung a collected high heel at him and he dodged it with the most wicked and innocent grin on his face. She took this opportunity to run into the walk-in closet and slam the door shut. But turning around and adjusting the knob, she discovered the lack of a lock.

This wouldn't be a problem at any other time, for who needed a closet to be locked but now?! America searched for something to stick against the knob to not enable it to open, but nothing produced itself. Dozens of dresses from the Selection and days after were hung up, safe in plastic covering, but as pretty they were, they were dead useless on a childish Maxon intent on capturing pictures of his beautiful, elusive wife.

So America hurried and hoped that for some reason Maxon was under the strange illusion that yes, this door was in fact locked. She pulled on those slimming pants and felt the knock against the door: Maxon.

"I'm not wearing a shirt," she warned.

"I won't bring my camera in," Maxon conceded.

"No," America laughed. Shirt was tugged on and her hair flipped out of the way; the door slightly opened and Maxon stared at the outstretched white hand held out to him. "My hairbrush, servant."

Maxon grabbed the wanted item and pressed it gently into the hand of the demanding wife. "Your Highness," he said with a respectful tone.

The door closed; Maxon wondered how long until his America walked out when another demand came his way: "A handheld mirror, Maxon."

"The brush is useless without it?" Maxon guessed when the delivery transactioned.

"Indeed," America said. Her beautiful hair was brushed thusly, and she peeked her freckled nose outside the closet. "Is it safe?"

"Never," Maxon grinned.

"These are for the family's eyes only, Maxon," America said. She realized she found herself in a position to lay down a few rules, or threaten to not leave that closet for the remainder of their Valentine's Day. "Hmmm . . . yes. Not Lucy or Mary or Aspen, even"—Maxon huffed at this, half-amused, half-not-pleased—"but Mom, and Kenna, and May, because they'll laugh silly."

"Am I allowed to develop any good ones and frame them on my desk?" asked the hopeful royal.

"If I get to choose the photo."

"You're a demanding woman."

"You should know that. You got me pants."

"Are you wearing pants?"

"Yes. Black yoga ones."

"Those are the best. Fine, I concede to all your points." America, amused, could imagine the look of complete resignation and impatience on her boy-husband's face. So America, wanting to see and please that face, appeared.

Maxon couldn't breathe, never mind take a keepable picture, when she emerged. She edged around the side of the door and closed it behind her, both of her hands against the door. White beautiful sunlight spilled through a tall paned window, allowing Angeles to cover her in spotlight. Her pale white skin was hinted and sparked with those brown-bronze freckles like glitter all over her face. That blouse was working with her eyes, and her legs were long and slim in those pants. She wore no shoes, having hadn't thought to pick any besides that lone high heel from the dozens of pairs residing in that large closet, so her white feet with tiny toes peeked out from the pools of bottom fabric of her pants.

She wore one of those shy wistful smiles, as if to say 'Stop it.' And she was beautiful.

"How did I think I could ever marry Kriss?" he breathed.

"It was a bad life decision that had its needed, if somewhat life-ruining, intervention," America said, bobbing her head.

Maxon cleared his throat, collecting his dropped jaw from the floor, and stepped back. In a pose one would take to propose to his lover, he squinted and closed an eye as he held up the camera. "Ready, America?"

America nodded and smiled.

The next hour was a silent one for the two secluded lovers. There were no knocks from maids or advisers running in with devastating news about the country affecting monarchy rule; no letters were written or questions asked or reporters interrogated. There was simply the sound of the camera clicking, and soft feet across the wooden floor as America posed in front of the window, looking wistfully out to the garden, and standing against the wall. She sat cross-legged, legs out, slouching; she squatted, posed, laid down, curtseyed, balanced on one foot, twirled around. Her face encompassed many emotions: she smiled, laughed, grinned, pressed a hand to her mouth, sung. She also had an emotion that couldn't be described as anything except wistful; she frowned, serious, angry, to be respected and have commands carried out. She was the apple of Maxon's eye. She commanded the impromptu shoot, and professionally, but also devotedly, with the air of a following puppy, he snapped pictures of her and couldn't speak for awe choked his throat.

Thus their morning concluded with them leaning head against shoulder in bed, in silence save for murmurs and laughs, as they surfed through the collection of pictures and selected those to stay, and those to be eliminated.

 **Thanks for reading!**


	7. Out-of-Doors

_**Soli Deo gloria**_

 **DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own The Selection.**

They _did_ bother to bother the staff that day; running around in old clothes pulled from the back of their closets reigning from the era of the Selection, they raced down past the first floor and bounded down the numerous stairs to emerge in the immaculate, professional kitchen. In progress around them was the prep of lunch for the palace. There were advisers, staff members, guards, lesser clean-up crews, important guests visiting Gavril, camera crews, who all needed to eat.

The bakers were elbow-deep in squishy white dough, pounding away with their fists and churning it between their big hands and stamping the heels of their hands into it. America watched this, transfixed by the practiced art of someone else's profession, as Maxon caught the attention of the head chef. A man in his forties, a proud heavyset man who'd worked hard on his career to make it here, to the top, as overseer and supervisor of all the meals passing through those kitchen doors, was stuck stumped and amazed by the friendly wave the ruling young monarch threw his way.

"Yesin?" Maxon asked, in a voice that asked silently for confirmation that he'd gotten his name right.

Yesin recovered from being awestruck and said, "Yes, Your Highness."

"Ah, yes. Well, Yesin, today my wife—" America smiled a smile that made Yesin look even more amazed, "—and I are going to have a picnic out-of-doors. Something fun and fancy-free, perhaps sandwiches with—with—"

"Chips?" Yesin was too bursting with ideas to realize the possibility of interrupting the king.

But Maxon hardly noticed, but quite the opposite—was relieved. "Excellent idea, chips," Maxon said. He looked at America with loving, admiring eyes, and said, "And Ames?"

"I'd like cookies. Tarts. Pink lemonade." She could quite literally stretch out a list.

"Yes, all those, by order of the queen." Maxon's hands were clasped behind his back, giving him a thoughtful stance. "Hmmmm . . . and chocolate. Lots of chocolates. Dozens and dozens—and cupcakes. Cupcakes are important." He looked to his side and received a fervent nod from his wife confirming the truth of this.

"Of course, of course." The chef affirmed everything, and Maxon said, "Send out a caravan to the gardens. That's where we'll be." He gave an authoritative nod, bid good day to the rest of the staff, who'd all stopped and stared, mute, at the king. Yes, they all knew where they worked, and who they cooked for, and the highest form of clientele immortalized as Ones in their land, but it was another thing for the king, the busiest, most important person in the kingdom, to come waltzing down to their ordinary work place and say "Good day" in such a cheerful, level voice.

They watched the king and his queen dash out as like two young kids in puppy love, and only picked up their pace to normalcy after they dipped their heads together and proceeded to whisper, amazed, and gush.

Maxon and America giggled each in turn as they plodded up the stairs and ran to the side of the palace, near the bedrooms of the guards, to the gardens. Formality had thus been shed that day, cast aside to be carefully lifted and pulled back on tomorrow. But for now, they weren't the king and the queen, not the only main Ones in the land, but a simple newlywed couple with a daycation all to themselves. They ran past the guards coming in from workout sessions, whether from the gym, the lawn being trampled under foot, or the pool. The inside pool was a luxury to all the guards, usually hailing from provinces or castes where such forms of leisurely physical exertion were not available at all. America felt quite envious of not having a royal one, for she felt certain that sometimes a hot bath didn't feel quite up to the job she needed done—she wanted a cold pool to leap into.

"Maxon, I have something of significant importance to demand of you," America said, coming abreast to her husband and squeezing his hand.

"Does it involve creating a new law or destroying a caste system? I'm two steps ahead of you in that case, darling," Maxon said.

"Ha ha, you're so funny. No, I want an indoor pool," America informed him.

Maxon considered this, weighing the scales in his mind, and he shook his head. "No. I'm afraid to say that I shall deny you that request, my love," he said.

"Why? An indoor pool for us would be wonderful. We could use it on hot Angeles days, and invite my family over, and I would have such fun times having Nicoletta in there!" America enthused.

"America, I'd rather we need not get a pool. Please," Maxon said.

America couldn't see why he was being so unmoved and so unreasonable. "Maxon, why not?"

"Because," Maxon said simply. He hoped she didn't notice how he couldn't meet her eyes, and looked away at something else far more interesting than this conversation. However, she did notice the hint of pain and personal worry in his eyes, and she didn't like it in the slightest—or even understand it. Why this refusal? It confused her.

America didn't say anything at first, as she didn't want to provoke and shift the mood of their excited escape. So she left herself be dragged forth by Maxon, who bounded forward with the youthful skip of puppies. She saw Aspen throw them an amused look from the wall, where the guards backed up to create a Red Sea parting for them. She knew that he approved her of spending good quality time with her husband, even if that husband didn't turn out in the end to be himself.

The feeling of uneasiness concerning Maxon and the indoor pool left America as she let it go and fully embraced the brightness of the outdoors. It was a fine wintry day in Angeles. It wasn't at all cold and freezing like the northern provinces, but had rather a deep-set sense of cool, a delicious relief if it'd been summer in Carolina. America breathed in that fresh air, feeling it tear at her lungs already torn a little from running, and felt young, alive, and loved in that moment. She felt these three things exemplified, magnified, and personified by Maxon. His face was quick to be King Maxon and Her Maxon, giving all he could to holding either face whenever the occasion called for it. Right now, he was fully, completely given over to being _her_ Maxon. Joy radiated from his face, all shiny from the exertion he gave to the task of running; he seemed so boyish, so golden, that America almost stopped, took a step back, and sighed in content and wistfulness. She wished her poor husband could look like that more—but the kingdom needed King Maxon more and more.

They stopped running outside the palace and nodded in reply to the respectful bows given them by the trail of guards, all shirtless, returning in a single file to the palace. They were toned and muscled, also oiled down with sweat. America, in her younger days, could well appreciate the muscles of a man who worked hard to earn them, but now her hand was tied gladly to her own man, whose muscles were among the top ranking here. She simply nodded to them in acknowledgement with all the air of a dignified queen performing her duty with style and grace. They received this so, and also thought with amazement what poise and degree of beauty that pair of them possessed. They were a couple who demanded love and loyalty in Illéa—they were too entirely likeable.

The gardens, a haunt of America's during the Selection, welcomed them back with open arms. The two, wordless, wove their way through the neatly trimmed hedges, rock-lined pathways, spurting fountains with flows of clear cold water, buds, blossoms, and boisterous wilts needing to be trimmed. Trees were with branches reaching up all in like a carefully choreographed dance, with only a few still in rightful possession of their leaves. No snow ever dared touch the gardens, as Angeles didn't lend itself well to being below forty degrees.

It wasn't a beautiful garden, but a rather precise one: the vast majority of the flowers, smells, and leaves were gone with the coaxing of an autumn wind, but America liked the mood of this garden as well as any other.

"Where should we have our picnic?" Maxon asked, sounding for all the world that this was the most important thing they could be doing at the moment and the subject of finding the perfect piece of property to share one small meal in the grand scheme of their long (hopefully long), lives, was top priority.

"Clermont," America said suddenly. Her walks and talks with Maxon here during the Selection reminded her of further details concerning the Selection, of the other girls there and her relationships with them, particularly one sneaky hothead who'd turned out to be a scared cool girl to have on your side, a fierce, loyal friend if there ever was one. She felt a sudden surge of affection for the gone girl, and wanted to be there in her little mark on the palace (she already had plans for transforming the Women's Room into a library, with a distinct 'Newsome' in the title).

Maxon, knowing with words, led them to that particular chunk of the garden.

In an earlier romantic gesture on part of the prince, he'd devoted much time, energy, and personal investment in transforming a lot of the garden into little pieces of six different provinces, each the home of his potential wife. The Carolina one was the one most frequented, especially when America needed to get away, homesick; just to sit there was a wonder to calm her nerves and give her reassurance of relief from that awful longing for Carolina.

Clermont was then visited—it was arranged in such a way that made one want to launch into a photo-shoot. However Maxon was that morning, he wasn't in the mood to spoil this quiet lovely silence between them as they stepped onto the hallowed ground, a place to honor that fallen friend. They sat on the bench that Celeste had sat on when Maxon'd personally escorted her to her piece of home at the palace. They sat there, surrounded by memories of her: good, bad, ugly, and some terribly cruel and all-out hilarious diva.

Then America broke the silence after closing her eyes and concentrating on the tweeting of a bird on the other side of the garden: "She would've loved the idea of Valentine's Day."

Maxon agreed. "She'd have made it a national holiday, or thrown a party in honor of it, and invited us all."

"She'd be beautiful in dark red. Not blue." America opened her eyes. "That was mostly my thing."

"As I seem to recall, yes, it was," Maxon agreed.

Both their heads were turned to face each other. America smiled at him with a sad, wistful little smile, and kissed him very slowly but briefly. Then she said lowly, "I've discovered another problem."

"America, we were trying to get away from our problems today," Maxon joked. But he gave her a listening ear just the same.

"The maids bringing our delicious superfluous lunch do not know where we are," America informed her husband. She looked pleased as Maxon, usually so on top of things (he was definitely trained by Clarkson), found himself having forgotten an important detail that needed to be taken care of lest lunch never arrived.

"Good point," he said. "What do you suggest as ways of fixing this horrible problem?"

"There's always crying out 'Help!' in hopes a barrage of guards come running our way, and we can then send them as messengers to the kitchen with an important dispatch from the king himself," America said.

Maxon scoffed. "You like the power vested in being a One far too much."

"I also have a mischievous streak."

"Really? I hadn't noticed. Thank you for informing me— _after_ we were married."

"I planned to reveal this side of me . . . eventually."

"Had me say our nuptials before such a time arose to bring it up by and by." America could tell he wasn't really angry. His eyes shone too hard—Maxon fed off of banter.

"Sneaky thing." He kissed her nose. "But no, I don't think screaming bloody murder would do anything except shave a few years off the lives of our devoted guards. No, I'll fetch one myself and send him to the kitchens without a heart attack waiting to happen."

"You're such a benevolent king, lowering himself to do such menial work."

"Keeps me humble." Maxon deposited a quick yet sweet kiss on her forehead before standing up from the stone bench and walking away. This left America in sweet reflection over the good moments in the Selection that led up to this scenario for a few minutes, before she heard the sound of an oncoming horde. She stood up, cocking her head, until she saw that Maxon was leading a barrage of staff to their very location. She stood back and received all the bows and curtsies given her because of her rank, before the staff placed their trays onto the bench according to Maxon's friendly instruction. Then they scampered away. America had no doubt that banter and gossip about the king and the queen would reign for the rest of the day in that kitchen. She didn't mind, though; they were all kind-hearted souls who liked Maxon and America; so what if they liked talking about them behind closed doors? They loved them as their monarchs, as celebrities, as persons, and couldn't help themselves.

"Let's see what the damage is," Maxon said, rubbing his hands together.

The smorgasbord made America's jaw drop; she'd grown used to seeing huge quantities of food all at once at the palace, but this was for _two_ people. Platters of sandwiches with clipped crusts and cut into triangles were situated among the pitchers of cold, brimming, shiny drink. Brown chips, crispy dark little things, piled high in a bowl; fresh watermelon, cantaloupe, strawberries, grapes, and raspberries made up a delightful fruit tray. A tea table's worth of cookies, tiny tarts dripping with curd and fresh whipped cream, stood high and proud on a pedestal, and then there was the chocolate; oh, chocolate cupcakes, soft and smelling of high heaven; thick meaty truffles that melted in the mouth with smooth cream; squishy brownies that could dissolve in your fingertips; frothy cocoa, bars, doughnuts, everything chocolate, nothing left naked for that delicious chocolate.

"This is exorbitant," America said matter-of-factly.

"And just for one day. And the leftovers will make the rest of the palace very happy," Maxon said, putting a positive spin on such extravagance. He gave her a kiss and poured her a delicious streaming glass of zesty lemonade. "Allow yourself to enjoy yourself for one day, America. It will do us both some good," he advised.

America supposed he had a point (she most definitely did _not_ want to argue against this feast), and enjoyed herself as she sat on a dragged-over picnic blanket and helped herself to the heavy buffet. "I fear I'll get fat because of this," she warned him.

"Today just keeps getting better and better," he beamed.

America rolled her eyes at him and they drank in those delicious beverages and took small bites of nearly everything, taking almost an hour to relish in the food and each other's company. It was silent aside from a few off-moment comments, and the sounds of birds having conversations that had nothing to do with the world of the humans. It was so nice and homey, with a smell in that air that warned of romantic rain later, that America was lost in a daze of pure rhapsody when Maxon said, "My scars, America."

"Hmmm?" America felt confused and caught off-guard; she swallowed the remainder of the truffle she'd been trying to melt slowly in her mouth and said, "What, Maxon?"

"The reason I do not want to get an inside pool is because of the scars on my back. They're my biggest, deepest secret. No one save you and my father and Dr. Ashlar knew of them, though Mother probably did. She never said anything, though." He breathed in deep and looked at the lemon cookie in his hand as if it held all the answers to all the questions in the universe. "I know an inside pool would just be for you and me and your family, but even then I can't let them see them." He shrugged. "I can write it off as a security issue; our popularity ratings would go down if it became known throughout the nation that their dead ruler was ruthless in his own home. I don't want to tarnish his memory too much, or cause civil unrest. But also," and at this part, he sighed, "it's mostly my pride that would get hurt if people saw that I was weak and allowed this to happen to me."

America looked startled, and she felt deathly ashamed for not having thought of such a reason before. Of course Maxon wouldn't want to put on display the marks of shame he hadn't earned from a father he wanted to show only the good sides of. She scooted closer and wrapped her arms about him, feeling the movements in his chest as he signed and chewed on a sandwich in an almost sulky yet rebellious manner.

"It's childish, isn't it?" he asked of her.

"Not at all," America said, kissing his cheek. Her fingers of one hand crept from its embrace to his back, and she traced the outlines of all those scars, some of them put there by her own ignorant hand. She leaned her head against his shoulder and said, "I won't mention a pool again, Maxon."

"There's always the guards' pool, if you really want to swim," Maxon, ever wanting to please America, thought of another good solution. He didn't want her to go without simply because of his pride, and he tried to make amends by quickly thinking of solutions. "I'll just make sure that all the guards are locked out and only your maids are present to see you in a bathing suit."

America laughed and kissed him again. His tone was adamant, and selfishly determined. "That's my generous, jealous husband," she said lovingly.

There was a compromise that didn't compromise another one of the nation's secrets, and America contemplated quietly to herself as she nibbled on a chocolate truffle just how disturbing the skeletons in Illéa's monarchs' closets were.

"Are you finished, Ames?" Maxon inquired. She'd grown silent, and closed her eyes against him.

"Yes, I guess," she said. Though, "Let's just stay here and not move for the entire afternoon."

"I was promised horseback-riding and I won't let it go. I've been looking forward to it." Maxon ruined America's comfortable relaxation by standing up. He offered his hands amiably and said, "Let's go for a walk for a few minutes before we do, or else there'll be vomit to deal with."

"That would put a damper on the afternoon," America said, wrinkling her nose and standing up by Maxon's aid.

Maxon grinned. "I believe avoiding vomiting at all costs."

"You're not ready to be a daddy, then," America informed him, dragging his hand along as they traversed out of Clermont toward Carolina. "Because children means morning sickness and then sick children."

"I'm ready for children right now—wait—this isn't an impromptu announcement of your pregnancy, is it?" Maxon was suddenly taken aback and five years younger, eyes wide, stopped short, awaiting.

America couldn't help her laugh. "No. Not pregnant. Yet," she said teasingly. "Not at the rate we're going."

"You got me going, Ames. No fooling me, or leading a man on." Maxon sighed and pocketed his hands before reluctantly offering her one as penance.

"Soon, husband, soooooon," America teasing in a foreboding tone.

"Oh, I hope so. No doubt Illéa is eagerly awaiting an oncoming heir for the throne. Have you been reading _Twos_ lately? The people are eager for evidence of a continuing royal line," Maxon said teasingly.

"Gavril will no doubt have fun with it all on the Report. But in the meantime, I don't want to hear another word about what that tabloid _Twos_ is saying. We're not royalty right now. We are America and Maxon enjoying Valentine's Day," America ordered.

Maxon clutched her hand tighter and their stomachs became well settled by the time they came up to the royal stables. It was funny, how the horses' stalls were right next to the lovely low-set garage. It held the silvery cars the monarchy used occasionally, mostly for fetching guests—America had ridden in one in from the airport for the Selection.

The stables smelled of sweet hay. They were mucked out morning and night, and therefore were never too overwhelmingly harsh on the royal and staffing noses. America and Maxon walked in to see a couple of guards having a conversation with one of the horse wranglers. They quickly noticed the king and queen, and bowed.

"Ivanko, good afternoon," Maxon said, in greeting to the horse-wrangler.

"Your Highness, an honor, as usual." Then Ivanko saw America, and an especial smile came over his wrinkled face. He was a man in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair, and his daughter was Lucy, one of America's wonderful maids from the Selection onward. He loved America more than Maxon, because she protected his daughter and cared for her. She offered kindness and adventure to Lucy's life, taking her to the Singer home that one Christmas; yet he also held Maxon in high esteem, for giving a house to Aspen Leger, providing the promise of a stable home so that the boy could propose to his daughter and marry her. Either way, he was forever in the debt of the monarchs, and served them humbly and with great care.

"We're here to go horseback-riding. We're taking a much-needed break today," Maxon explained.

"So I heard," Ivanko said cheerfully. He excused himself from the guards, who bowed to their monarchs and left to keep doing their job instead of being caught in a conversation on-the-clock. Ivanko walked deeper into the stalls, out of sight. Maxon was undaunted by the place and walked in, saying, "My mother and I used to come here as often as we could, Ames. C'mon. You can ride her horse."

"Old Gold? Excellent choice, Your Highness," Ivanko complimented.

America was unfamiliar with horse stalls—the work of Fives concentrated more on messy man-made products, not in dealing with the living, breathing lives of animals. But still, she walked in, interested in entering this little sanctuary that Amberly and Maxon had delved in together.

There was a total of eleven horses in that broad barn. Ivanko talked to each as he walked past them, whispering to them, kissing their noses, and feeding them cubes of sugar from a deep pocket on the leather apron he wore over his front. Maxon followed behind like a patient impatient little boy, smiling at the horses he knew from his childhood, looking anxiously for ones in particular.

America'd never been to the stables before, but the horses demanded affection from her as if they'd known her for years. They stuck their long noses out, commanding the commander to bestow strokes upon their noses. America admired them, the lovely brutes, and was kept back from following Ivanko and Maxon to smile and thoroughly scratch and tickle the outstretched snout of a coppery horse with a white star on its forehead.

"You've found Penny," Ivanko called. America looked up to see the horse-wrangler and Maxon at the opposite end of the long stables. Ivanko's face was lit-up with an amused grin, and Maxon was looking at America with soft loving eyes, and a little smile of his own. America knew he loved when she interacted well with different pieces that made up his life.

"Is she the one I'm going to ride?" America wondered.

"I was thinking more of my mom's horse, Gold," Maxon said, giving a pet to the horse of his beloved mother.

America abandoned Penny with a goodbye and crossed over to get acquainted with Gold. A magnificent beast, with hefty breaths and bulging muscles. Ivanko led her out as Maxon disappeared from sight to retrieve his own beautiful Silver. America stroked the fine steed and Ivanko helped her up after he explained how to ride her and put on the proper equipment. By the time America was snug on the back of Gold, Maxon was alongside her. "You taught me a long time ago how to suit up a horse, and I've never forgotten," he grinned, to Ivanko.

Ivanko grinned, pleased, and smiled wistfully as the two royals who'd done so much for him and his daughter disappeared into the more rural horse-beaten grounds of the back gardens.

"Did your father go horseback-riding with your mother during his Selection?" America wondered curiously.

Maxon's eyebrows knit together. "I don't think so. They spent a lot more time indoors. Father carried on most of his romantic activities indoors with the Selected, according to Mom. Indoors has order, while our gardens provided a perfect place for rebels to invade. Not to mention that the weather was oft unreliable, and Father hated things not going according to plan."

"Woe that the weather wasn't in his command," America commented.

"Indeed." Maxon flashed a smile.

The Selection was prevalent in America's mind today. It was a romantic competition, balancing politics and romance at its heart. She wondered aloud, "Do you think that any of the other Selected's husbands wooed them as you wooed me?"

"Probably not," Maxon said. "I fear that many of the Selected's marriages were very quick rash decisions. The men saw them on TV maybe once, twice, fell in love, and when the girls were eliminated, they're usually married within the week."

America grimaced. "I'm glad I wasn't one of them. Imagine, if you'd eliminated me, the throngs of young men at my door in Carolina! My family would never get any peace, and I'd hate them all."

Maxon took on a thoughtful, almost jealous face. America bumped his horse with hers, earning her a look and several knickers. "Keep on your side, dear," Maxon reproached humorously.

"Why so serious, dear?" America wanted to know.

Slight hesitation betrayed Maxon before he said calmly, "Would you've married Aspen if you'd gone back?"

America wasn't prepared for that, so she stalled with, "Well, he'd have been here at the Palace for months yet. Perhaps I would've been snatched up by someone else before he came back. Castes wouldn't be an issue anymore."

"America."

"I would've wanted to, yes," America said. "He was a Two; the castes would've been on the other foot. I would've been made a Two."

"But isn't a One better?" Maxon asked, hoping for the right answer.

"Of course, you jealous king. The most important One in the land and jealous of a guard," America teased him.

"I am jealous of anyone else who'd have earned your love," Maxon said seriously.

"Don't worry." America gave him a warm smile. "You're the only one to be jealous of."

This provided balm to Maxon's envious heart, and he kept no hate against Aspen that afternoon as they rode in the cloudy Angeles weather and discussed at length the Selection's couples, learning family history and also enjoying a few laughs and reminiscences just the two of them—together, just them.

 **Thanks for reading!**


	8. The End - Romantic Dinner

_**Soli Deo gloria**_

 **DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own The Selection.**

 **It's the last chapter, ladies and gents. (It's about time!)**

The afternoon leading up to a fantastic evening was blissful in every sense of the word. The shoulders usually laden with tension from a stressful day ofanswering letters and worrying about the dissipation of castes long laid in the stonework of the nation, were gone.

Maxon and America were lightly-burdened and light-hearted on their horseback rides. They strolled along the long worn paths with the fallen leaves of a cool winter. Their conversation wasn't laced politically or work-related at all, but was wistful, reminiscent. They talked of olden days (yes, olden days, they called them) of the Selection and all those who survived its ends. Their husbands, jobs—already there were pregnancies and the wiggling of little baby feet belonging to those who once worried themselves sick about meeting the prince for the first time. This, of course, made them give their ruling queen many sisterly pokes and prompts to get started on her own little royal family.

Maxon laughed and grew serious as he reflected and relayed little anecdotes and memories of his father and mother, how they interacted with him, with the staff, the nation, and with each other. "I have no doubt in my mind that they loved each other. They just displayed it in different ways," he said in a low tone.

Back at the start with the stalls, the horses were deposited after a thorough brushing and feeding. America swung her husband's hand around as they giggled and snuck around the lower floor of the palace, as if they were seventeen and nineteen just for a minute once again.

"Ah, Miss Lucy!" Maxon said in a cheerful, commanding voice. She stopped short, having been bringing down a tray of tea things from a media meeting led by Gavril Fadaye. She curtsied to His and Her Majesties. "Your Highness, Miss," she smiled.

"We would like to order our meal for this evening," Maxon said, and he turned to America with a mischievous yet serious look. "My love, the words I am to say to Miss Lucy aren't for you."

"Why not?" America demanded curiously, yet teasingly, going along with his serious ruse.

"I want our one last romantic dinner before we're transported from our land of romantic limbo back into the pressured life of ruling a nation to be a surprise from my lady," Maxon said.

America couldn't help the adorable look on her man before her, and couldn't object to him doing so. She let go of his hand and left him to pace up and down the hall outside the massive industrious kitchen. Oftentimes guards in their dignified grey uniforms would pass her, changing shift like a tag team, or returning from an exercise session. Hmm, but none of them could top Maxon shirtless. _Really._

But who should pass her in one of many, many lengthy halls in the massive, many-storied palace but her favorite guard. Fortunately wearing a shirt as to not excite the jealous rage of their young king, should he walk in on them talking (as he apparently had the now perfect habit of doing), was Aspen. Respected, toned, calm, cool, and collected. Still, that boyish romantic side in him showed as he said, "Hey, Ames. How's your Valentine's Day going?"

"It's going great. So fantastic, as a matter of fact, that I feel quite generous. So generous that if you were to ask for a similar day for you and Lucy, I would not only allow it but demand it of both of you. You two work too hard and love each other too much to not have one," America said.

Aspen had been walking down the hall, probably to go organize next week's guard scheduling or complete paperwork with bringing in a new draft. But he stopped from whatever important work he could otherwise be doing and kept apace with America. It was quite silly of him, to painstakingly ensure that his steps aligned with hers, but it made America smirk and remember him from a few years ago. And look at them now—from the treehouse to a palace floor waiting for the arrival of their better halves who were, surprisingly, _not_ each other.

"It's hard to believe that you two have been married six months," Aspen said. "I swear, the Selection just happened."

"It did. What's hard to believe is that you and Lucy _aren't_ getting married yet. But when you do, I need to have a party for her with just us girl friends in the Women's Room. And have Mary chose out and/or make all three of our dresses."

"Poor Mary," Aspen joked.

"I can't sew to save my life and like I'm having Lucy make up her own wedding dress," America said. She side-glanced at him and said, hands on her hips, "What kind of a queen, or a friend, do you think I am?"

"A dictating, bossy one," Aspen teased, as if it was obvious.

America feigned disgust and righteous royal indignation. "I shall have your head for that, good sir!" she said, raising her hand and voice.

This, of course, made Aspen laugh and Maxon reappear. Any raised voice of his wife together with the light-hearted laugh of his once-rival, while it didn't alarm him, didn't sit well with him. Fortunately, Lucy was right after Maxon, to make the tension dissipate as quickly as Maxon had appeared.

"And what's up here?" Maxon wondered. Hands in his pockets, shifting on his feet, his attempt to butt in not-too-obviously was a failure.

America, to both answer and soothe him, linked her arm in his and smirked at him. "We're only scheming together plans for Aspen and Lucy's wedding."

Maxon visibly relaxed at this mention, to the shared amusement of America and Aspen. He nodded to the happy couple, who were now as close and linked together as the royals. "And when is that?"

"Soon, and every second until then is agony," Aspen said. He looked with dark, focused eyes on Lucy, who smiled her sweet, overwhelmingly happy smile, and brightened as she laid her little head against Aspen's firm shoulder. She looked away from him, but he couldn't keep his eyes away from her. The look of complete and utter admiration and devotion on his face could force tears into someone's eyes. Someone, of course, being America, who intimately knew the familiar hardships and troubles caused by the castes and financial troubles choking them both; she could only see this idyllic moment between them as nothing short of a miracle. However, she summoned breath enough to talk in a reasonably normal tone of voice. "Lucy, I was just talking to Aspen about you two having your own Valentine's Day, since mine and Maxon's is going so well."

"We couldn't possibly; we're so busy as it is. . ." Lucy began, trailing off. But America knew the girl: she was so used to working so hard for so little, and taking valuable time off to do nothing but engage in leisure with someone you loved seemed terribly expensive. Aspen had that mindset as well, but America knew that since he was won over to the idea, he'd have Lucy seeing the benefits of it soon enough.

"You both work so hard to keep the palace running, you deserve a day off. I order it, as king of Illéa, and as that is an official order, it'd be defying the king to not carry it out," Maxon said, joking in a stern tone.

"You sure abuse your power a lot," Aspen accused, amused.

"A benefit of being one of two sole royals, and the head of a nation. It has enough troubles of its own," Maxon figured, "that I must take advantage of its perks. One of those is being married to the other sole royal," and he looked with such warm-hearted devotion and love at the woman attached to his side that America had to clear her throat to keep from giggling to return him to reality. "Have you settled the dinner with Lucy and the chefs, then, my dear?" she quipped, with raised eyebrows and a mischievous tone of voice.

"Yes, I have," Maxon said. He shook himself to resettle himself and get withdrawn from his daydreams, to the giggles of Lucy and the knowing smirk of Aspen, and said, "I bid you two adieu. I am going to go smother my wife with kisses."

America and Maxon walked on with linked arms but overhead Aspen call after them, "Isn't it capital punishment for killing a royal?"

"I am the king!" Maxon turned back to him, "I am invincible!"

"If you hurt a hair on her head, I don't care if you have royal blood. I'll be personally convicted to kick your ass," Aspen warned protectively.

Lucy and America, though working hard to smother their otherwise hysterical, closed-eyes laughs, proved that they were the sensible ones in this situation. They tugged their better halves away from actually getting into a heated fist-battle. Maxon, though teasing Aspen as he was, had a seed of real resentment for the guy for all the pain he had inflicted on his Selection, and was silent, if a bit moody, when America finally had him around a corner and calmed down to a regular high.

"Maxon, calm down. He was just teasing you," America reminded him as they swept up the spacious, spiral staircase leading up to the king's room.

"I know. I am just not used to be teased. My interaction with guys my age is limited, and I have an overprotective streak. It seems to get me in trouble when it shouldn't," Maxon admitted as their feet ate up the red carpet flooring the third-floor halls.

"I know." America kissed his cheek, perking him up, and he walked with a happier skip in his step.

Perhaps each had had big romantic plans for the other, but those were thrown away; they ended up dozing in the library going over old family albums spanning many generations of the Schreaves; and the tired couple looked at each other with warm little smiles and caressed with tender, tiny touches when they napped to the sound of rain falling outside their window.

When they awakened, Maxon's thumb rubbed little circles on her pale white hand. "I had planned this big event in the ballroom, with that magnificent dinner. It was going to be like the Halloween ball, but better, because the only person I'd dance with is _you_."

America frowned, looking at him. "And why can't we do that?"

Maxon groaned and blew a lock of blonde hair lazily out of his eyes. "Because we're both tired; 'zonked out', one could say. Not to mention I'm still feeling lunch." He smirked as he patted his flat stomach.

America felt jealous of his metabolism and quickly recalled herself from being side-tracked by his abs. "No. It's Valentine's Day, and a dance with you after a romantic dinner sounds just like what I need."

"Really? Okay. I'll call it together and throw something on. You spend an hour or two giggling over girl talk with Mary and getting ready. Meet you at seven in the ballroom, my love?" Maxon inquired.

"It's a date." America tugged her ear and Maxon, in the spirit of things, did the same.

* * *

"There. You're the prettiest girl in the Selection. I am absolutely convinced that Maxon will choose you," Mary joked, when she stood back from America's hair and smiled at the queen in the mirror.

America touched a dark red curl and smiled. Her dress was of baby blue, silk, and lace. The sleeves' width ended at her shoulders, the V-neck fit in, and there was a seamless detour when the skirt bloomed out from the waist. She was reminiscent of her teen years, when Maxon first met her and fell in love with her.

"I think I will," America said.

She took the stairs, sometimes taking a glance out the huge windows to look over the gardens. Those gardens held a special place in her heart, as a place where she and Maxon had passed in countless hours together, talking, walking, and learning about each other.

The sun had disappeared and already it grew darker; the orange-lit crystalline chandeliers overhead shone brightly over the transformed ballroom; the butler opened the doors for America, and yet she tiptoed in as a shy girl awaiting a date, not as the queen entering a stately ballroom.

The elegant room, its white walls covered in revered masterpiece arts, was empty. Empty, save for a single circular table, clothed over with a white linen tablecloth, covered with pieces of intricate elegance. Two chairs faced off across from each other, and by one was her husband. Maxon wore a baby blue tie, was clean-shaven, and more handsome than ever. America felt herself honored and blessed to have such a man rule her country and yet be her lover at the same time. She held a singular, enviable position that no one else in the world did.

He pulled the chair out for her and smiled. "America, you look beautiful this evening."

"I hear that Kriss and Celeste are eye-catching themselves," America said, waggling her eyebrows.

Maxon's eyebrows knitted together. "Who?" he said. He kissed her before she sat down. He pushed the chair back and said next to her ear, looking forward to the table before them, "You're the best choice, the best decision I've ever made. Don't ever doubt that."

America faced him and said, "So are you mine. So don't you ever doubt that."

"Fine. You win. Wife, one, husband, zero," Maxon joked, conceding.

"Excellent." America kissed him for a lingering second or two, and then he said, "Now, for our romantic dinner, my dear."

America let this slide just once, and enjoyed the meal with Maxon. The grilled steak melted in their mouths, the butter was lavished with abandon on warm, chewy bread, and Maxon declared that this asparagus was the best in the land.

At one point, in came a walking orchestra. America's ears had perked and her fork had stopped its usual job of picking, poking, dropping, and resuming—a rare occurrence. Her eyes turned to the corners of her eyes and Maxon continued eating his mashed potatoes with innocent ignorance. "These mashed potatoes are the fattiest, most delicious in the world, next to this world-class asparagus! Really, this vegetable out of the palace kitchens is one of the Seven Wonders of the world!"

America's eyes slid back to Maxon, and she gave him raised eyebrows.

"What is it, my dear?" Maxon inquired, chewing and assuming the pose of husbandly concern.

"You totally planned that, didn't you?"

"Planned what? Please, dare to be more specific, my dear."

"Stop saying that or I will revoke your 'my dear' privileges."

"If I stop, it'll be just like having my 'my dear' privileges snatched from me," Maxon said, observing aloud.

"Maxon, did you plan this?" America's eyebrows indicated the walking orchestra, with its violins, cello (on wheels), and flutes.

"Of course I did, America." Maxon wiped at his mouth with the neat corner of a napkin, and America said, "You're such a romantic."

"I had to be during the Selection; all you girls expected romantic gestures, and believe me—" He stood up, bowed, and offered his outstretched hand with good-humor and a twinkle in his eye, "I'm still full of them."

America took his hand and they walked to the middle of the dance floor. She could feel the eyes of the musicians on them both, the sole couple in this vast room, but she chose to look at Maxon, focusing on him instead, and within a moment or two this proved the easiest thing to do in the world. All her eyes could focus on was him—but then also her stomach gurgling. "It's probably not a good idea to dance immediately after eating. My stomach seems to be protesting in favor of digesting a bit first," America said. But then she saw how eager he was. He was just about to willingly concede when she said quickly, "But I can do a slow song."

Maxon signaled to the musicians, and they went from deeply romantic to soft, whimsical, sweet music. It floated across the room, and sounded so sweet and soothing to America. She sighed and her arms around her husband's neck, she pressed her cheek to his broad shoulder. She closed her eyes, her hands intertwining at the small of his muscular back. She sunk into him, from his hand at the bend of her waist to his other hand flat against one of her shoulder blades. It was a moment of pure bliss, this moment.

"Promise me every dance tonight? I don't want to see you dance with any young rascal who thinks he has a chance with you," Maxon joked.

America faced him and twisted a finger in a delightful little springy curl of his. "I promise, my dear," she said.

Maxon opened his mouth in protest but then wisely closed it, and held her close.

This lasted some moments, during which America thought over several romantic relationships she'd observed in her life. From her parents, how they argued and took different sides. And yet Dad, in his paint-stained smock, made Mom smile, and smoothed her ruffled feathers, and Mom often made him his favorite flavored iced tea and brought it to him when he'd been working in the garage for hours on end in a state of breakless passion.

Then Amberly and Clarkson. The latter was deceptive, manipulative, and self-centered, and so it was an endearing thought to think with how much delicacy and lenience he treated Amberly like a rare, respectable treasure.

It was strange to think that three members of these two pairs were gone, never to be so anymore.

But America thought that Maxon looked at her with just the same genuine love and esteem James held for her older sister, Kenna. With the same amount of protectiveness and fierce devotion as Aspen had for Lucy. With the same kind of loyalty and concern that Marlee and Carter held for each other—

With the same kind of especial attention and forgiveness she had for him.

At the end of the song, America looked at Maxon and said, "I hope that our children find the same kind of love that we have."

"I hope so too, America," Maxon said.

America yawned, making Maxon laugh. "It's been a long day," she said in defense, rather than in apology.

"Maybe it's time to go to sleep in one another's arms," Maxon decided.

"But not before we gaze at the stars from the balcony," America insisted.

Maxon smiled and squeezed her hand. "Whatever you say, my love." He kissed her forehead first, just for a second. Then the tip of her nose for longer. Then her lips lingeringly, for forever.

The musicians bowed to the couple exiting the room; once out of sight, America and Maxon exchanged a mischievous look; America picked up her skirts and they ran. They ran down those halls like so many times he had before in his childhood. They ran with abandon, with adventure, with each other.

Upon coming off the grand staircase, they turned to go down to the king's room when they heard excited crying and exclamations in the shadows ahead. America and Maxon stopped mid-step, almost stumbling. "Rebels?" America said immediately, ready in a second to plunge from happy-wife to determined-queen mode.

Maxon shook his head. Though always ready to be on the alert at an even quicker pace than America, he didn't sound so concerned. "That sounds like . . . Lucy and Aspen."

Curious and investigative (and always for poking their noses into interesting situations), the two ventured forth into the hall, and discovered Aspen holding Lucy off the ground in a warm, loving, thick embrace. The moonlight poured through one of the many tall windows allowing illumination into the hall; it fell over them like heaven's spotlight.

"Aspen? Lucy?" America asked, worried.

The two lovers turned to the confused, curious pair of lovers, and gasping back happy sobs, Lucy displayed her fine white hand, which now boasted a slim bronze ring, with a green diamond brightening it immensely.

"We're engaged," Aspen said proudly.

Aspen and Lucy were immediately separated as America squealed and hugged Lucy hard, who was still happy-sobbing. Maxon congratulated Aspen heartily, all smiles to his ears. "Nothing could give either America or I more pleasure," he said.

America faced Lucy and examined the ring, her own hands trembling. She too felt a sob in her throat. "I'm so happy for you, Lucy," she managed to say.

"Thank you, America," Lucy said. She covered her slim pink lips with a hand, and threw such a loving, adoring look to her fiancé that Aspen kept treasured.

They all switched partners, so America now hugged Aspen fiercely and Maxon congratulated Lucy ("It's about time," he said, making her laugh and nod). America said, "I'm so happy for you, too, Aspen."

"Thanks, Ames."

Once they drew back, America said, "You proposed to her on Valentine's Day? You're such a romantic." She hit his arm, but not meanly—teasingly.

"I was inspired by you and Maxon together, and also by our conversation earlier. I've had the ring for a month. I just went down and asked her father for permission. He cried when I asked him, pressed my hand and told me it was an honor to have me marry his daughter." Aspen sounded so relieved, so happy; and America was glad for him. If anyone deserved a break and each other so much, it was Aspen and Lucy. His arm linked with Lucy's smaller one perfectly. They stood before America and Maxon as a completed couple.

"When's the wedding?" Maxon asked, looking at Lucy but meaning it as a question to be answered by either.

"We don't know," Lucy said. "Hopefully soon."

"Let's just get through today," Aspen said, laughing.

"But don't wait too long. Also, don't wait too long to tell Mary; it's bad enough I know before she does," America said, laughing.

Lucy smiled, but there was a distance in her eyes separating her from the situation for a moment. "I also wish Anne could've been told with her," she whispered.

America hugged Lucy again, this time in comfort against the haunting memories and wishful, heartfelt wants for their friend. "She would've been so happy for you both," America reassured Lucy.

Aspen kissed Lucy's temple and Lucy sniffed and nodded. "She would've."

All four smiled and grinned, and the two parties separated only after an hour's conversation in the moonlight. Departed as the two pairs of lovers, neither of the pair composed of the king and queen of Illéa could speak for a moment. They remained instead in thoughtful bliss on the way to their bedroom.

Maxon was the first to speak. "Those old history books might not have had many good bits in them, but this is one of those pieces of good."

America knew that the disintegration of the castes had been the intent going in to read those diaries. But that could wait until tomorrow. "We'll get to the bad parts and rectify them. But I'm glad we have this piece of good today," she said, looking lovingly into her husband's eyes.

Maxon agreed with those eyes. "Happy Valentine's Day, my love."

"Happy Valentine's Day to you, too, my love," America whispered back to him.

 ***whispers* _This was supposed to be published by Valentine's Day, 2015._ Moral of the story: DO NOT procrastinate. XP**

 **Thanks for reading!**


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